


Breathing Air

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Roommates/Housemates, Second Chances, accidental suicide attempt, somewhat Brit-picked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3679554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John puts two of his non-bloodied fingers on the junction of the boy's jaw and neck. There's a pulse. Faint. Tremoring. Spaced apart. But it's there. He could almost whoop. "Oh God," He sighs out, not aware he's avoiding a question. "He's got a pulse. He's breathing." A gasping breath, a quieter voice. "He's breathing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Air

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blowing Smoke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171469) by [sporklift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift). 



> **Please note through the tags that this story will contain mild themes of suicide, references to abuse and strong, vulgar language including homophobic slurs. Read at your own discretion.**
> 
> Special thanks and all my complete and utter ind aff to the amazing friend, beta, and adorable gumdrop _z0mbieshake_ for reading through my drafts and jumping headfirst into this little tugboat with me all those months ago.
> 
> **EDIT: 11/1/2015: Changed Felix's surname from Knight to Ratched becuase the show canonically gave us the Severe Nurse's name.**

** September **

 

 

His fingers shake when he twists the key in the ignition. The world is blurry and dark and the mist and low-lying clouds in the forest are as enticing as a lullaby. More than anything he just wants to shut his eyes and  _black out._ His fingertips turned blue sometime earlier in the night, his grubby fleece blanket hadn't been enough to keep him warm.

His teeth chatter and clank when he listens to the engine growl and spring to life.

There, he nods, twisting the dials to a 5 on the heat and his fan up to full blast.

If he didn't decide to do this, maybe his blue fingertips would have to get amputated tomorrow. It's funny in the simple way of action-to-reaction. Just like everything else.

A muted, sad little sigh, and he leans in on the steering wheel - first with his arms resting on the gaps and then he presses his forehead against the cold sleeve. He can feel the air, starting to edge on warmth, propelling from the vents. In a few minutes the whole carriage will be warmed and he can finally get back to sleep. He's never been this tired in his life, he thinks, resting his forehead on his arms. And, when he sighs, he can still smell the mochas and fucking scented candles and the last he has of Peter's favourite cologne.

His eyes wrinkle shut when the pain comes. Anything to stop the tears.

It gets harder to open his eyes after that; the crooning lullaby of the forest around him and the deceptively reassuring rumbling of his car a soothing vibration.

Convincing himself he'll be able to make himself wake up in five minutes, he relaxes his face and drifts off and away.

 

 

John wishes he could blame it on jetlag. He wishes that he could say he's only awake at five in the morning because he's not on the continent he's used to being on. But he's been in the States for a week. He and Michael had gone to New York for a few days, thought they might as well. They didn't think that it might make the sheen of little Storybrooke, Maine seem a little… _dim._

Logically, it did make sense for the Darling Bank Corporation to come here in their first stride for international expansion. Storybrooke was a small town, most shops were locally based, run by families. And ultimately that fits the Darling Bank's modus operandi.  _The Darling Bank: Family Minded and Centred Around Helping Your Children Grow Up into Successful Adults Since 1860._

And, God, do they need a catchier slogan.

But the point is that Storybrooke, Maine fits the intended image. It'd make it so much easier to sell and expand through the United States and Canada if they started someplace that fit their mantra.

It's all good business sense.

Which is something John won't have much of if he can't get a little more sleep. He turns over in bed with a noisy huff. He seals his eyes shut, thinks about sheep jumping over a fence; waves crashing on a calming beach; a fire roaring in a hearth.

His eyes snap open again. The red lines on his alarm clock are fuzzy but he can make out the blurred 5:05.

Groaning, John flings his comforter off his legs, grumping a terse, " _Have it your way, then"_ to himself before sliding on a pair of Nike running trousers. He pulls them up mechanically and slides into the rest of his thermals and trainers without much thought.

Nana's sleeping by the stairs when John clicks his tongue to wake her. Usually he'll have something liquid for breakfast before his run but, for one reason or another, he isn't hungry.

Perhaps he's nervous about the new job.

Nevertheless, he continues to move by route. Habit forms his movements as he chugs a glass of water and hooks Nana to her harness. "Ready for a run, old girl?"

The white-and-black newfie blinks at him with bulbous black eyes. She probably misses England and she probably misses Wendy and all the normal smells and all the normal sounds. Sympathetic to her assumed plight, John pats her head before he tugs on the leash. She's trained well enough to come to her feet and well-mannered enough to wag her tail and look back at John, slobber slinging from her chops.

' _Someday,'_ John thinks, situating himself with his earbuds ' _Maybe I can react so well to being awake at five in the morning. '_

He presses play on his iPod, hard rock vibrates in his skull, reverberates in his mind and he thinks, one foot out the door, ' _Probably not.'_

John can see his breath in front of him, cool puffs of white fog with every sustained exhale; icy air continually waking him as he takes step after step running under the dawn's grey sky. Nana's warm lope beside him, heavy panting provides a calming bassline as he turns away from the streetlights and into the woods. The morning's still young, and John thinks it might be fun to take the path a little less civilised.

"C'mon, Nana," He says, almost laughing.

The song shifts in his ears, recognizable within the first few notes.

" _Living easy, living free, season ticket on a one-way riiide."_

He grins although he has to take few moments to jog slower as he gets used to the uneven footing of the jagged, rooty footpath through the wood.

In his ears, the song continues, " _Asking nothing, leave me be, Taking everything in my stride."_

The forest is truly enchanting. Sylvan mist surrounding him, mixing and mingling with the cloudy puffs as he continues to breath in the icy air and expel it just a little warmer. There's so much left to do today, John knows he'll have to turn around and head back home soon.

But he'll keep on going, just for this one last song. For Nana's sake; old girl needs some exercise.

" _I'm on the highway to hell! The hiiiighway to hell!"_

When he gets back, John will have to jump in the shower, take about fifteen minutes to heat up his flat iron and wrestle his hair into something that'll lie straight, and maybe by that point he'll be hungry enough for breakfast. But most likely he won't have time to eat and be at the bank on time. So a quick prepackaged flapjack will be it. John doesn't mind; he virtually lived off them at uni.

" _Like a wheel, gonna spin it. Nobody's gonna mess me 'round."_

He and Michael have a lot to do today. They've got a meeting with the Mayor to talk about what this grand opening of the Darling Bank means for Storybrooke, they'll stop by the building and have a chat with the interior designer to make sure everything is ready for the grand opening that,  _Rest assured, Madam Mayor, will do nothing but wonders for this town._

" _Don't stop me, oh Lord. I'm on the hiiiighway to hell! The hiiiighway to hell!"_

John sighs out his last breath, feeling an instant pinch in his side. He stops, resting his hands on his knees for a bit. Nana's got her nose to the ground. Best be heading back; his mind has decided it wants to think about work and trying to postpone it only ever gives him migraines.

"C'mon girl," John starts, raising his voice to hear himself over AC/DC's big finish.

Nana doesn't budge. On the contrary, she presses her nose deeper into the ground. Tail straight out behind her. Her head flies up, looking deeper into the mist in front of them.

John tugs on the leash. "Nana," He whistles sharply. "Time to go home."

She won't move.

" _Nana. Come."_ John uses both hands to tug on her harness and she barks, loud and deep. "What's with you, girl?"

In a moment, all Nana's hair  _stands on end._ She barks four more times, loud and rumbling and blunt enough to trek through the entire forest. And, with a jolt, she runs deeper into the woods.

There isn't enough warning to let go and John falters, lands flat on his face. He scrambles up with just enough time to see his dog bound through the mist, just out of sight.

With an aggravated sigh, John shakes the dirt off his hands and legs. There's nothing else to do, and so he runs after her, hoping there isn't a highway or train tracks anywhere near these woods.

And he sprints, following the general direction he saw the newfie disappear, calling out " _Nana!"_ and " _Come here, girl!"_ every once in a while.

And isn't that just his luck. First he wakes up at five in the morning. Then his dog runs off. Now he'll be late for work on his very first day and Michael will never, ever, ever let him hear the end of it.

Off in the distance, Nana barks. Once, twice, three times. Not bothering to think about what on earth Nana could have found (A hedgehog perhaps? Do they _have_ hedgehogs milling around in the States?), he sprints off towards the sound, hoping to catch her before something else snatches her attention.

The barking doesn't stop, and John's side is burning, sharp pain as though a series of knives cuts through his lung and he swears that, by fucking Jove, he's not going to take Nana out into the woods again -

He finds Nana first, barking and jumping on the metal doors of a rusty old car, exhaust blowing out its pipes.

_A car?_

Who leaves a car in the middle of the woods overnight?

Who leaves a car  _running_ in the middle of the woods overnight?

" _Nana."_ John groans, coming nearer to the dog, and grabbing metal hook on her harness.. "Come here before you damage-" His voice dies when he looks through the window and sees a head of messy blond snarls balancing on the steering wheel. Dead still.  _Dead. Stil._ " _Christ."_

Now that he's seeing clearly he can tell the windows are tinted grey from the clouds of thick smog on the inside. A single body inside, slumped over the dash. And before John realises that he's still standing here, his brain screams at him:  _DO SOMETHING!_

He tries the door first. Locked. John's a complete idiot and he might've just inadvertently  _killed t_ his stranger.

_Okay. Focusfocusfocus. Shit._

He needs to get in. Break a window. Okay, John thinks, looking for a boulder or a brick or - he doesn't know, a  _crowbar_ or something - something lying on the ground. He whips around himself, looking. There's a flash of green from inside the car. Nothing. The ground's all soil and mud. Moldable, fragile, soft.

There's nothing but him and Nana here.

Wait.

Without worrying too much on the specifics, John makes quick work of Nana's harness. The metal clasps under her chest are heavy, durable. This should work

Adrenaline pulsing, buzzing in his ears, John uses every muscle in his body and smacks the glass on the window. Nothing. Growling, he tries again. Nothing; Nana barks louder. A third time and - " _Got it!" -_ there's a crack, a long thin crag crooked on the horizontal. Winding back, just like he's seen in sports on the telly, John hits again. The crag spiderwebs; crackling lightning bolts stretch across the glass. Nana's going off, deep bark sounding over and over and over.

Dogs can sense things. Maybe she knows if he's still alive in there.  _Please be alive._

One last hit. And the next thing John knows there's the reassuring crash and tinkling of glass shattering. It showers the still head. When John reaches in the vehicle to pull the lock back out, it slashes through his hand with the sharpness of a thousand little knives.

But none of that matters. He swings the door open and hauls the body - the  _boy._ He's tugging out someone tall and skinny and completely limp against the cold, hardened ground. Nana stops barking, but instead prances her feet, loping round and round the two of them, panting hurriedly.

John grabs his phone next, hissing when the metal hits the glass embedded in his palm. From habit, he starts to dial 999 but stops himself, hissing out a frantic growl at his mistake -  _losing time. Not enough time to make stupid mistakes_ \- opting instead for the more continentally appropriate 911. He brings the phone to his face and can feel the blood on his hand from the window. And hopefully  _only_ from the window.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I've got a boy here, I think he's got carbon monoxide poisoning."

This dispatcher's calming tone mixed with a peculiar accent does nothing but set John's teeth on edge. "We'll get an ambulance as soon as possible. We have pinpointed the location of your phone and medics are on their way. Can you tell me exposure time and condition?"

"No, I just found him like this. He's out cold." Nana barks again. Oddly frantic, John puts two of his non-bloodied fingers on the junction of the boy's jaw and neck. There's a pulse. Faint. Tremoring. Spaced apart. But it's there. He could almost whoop. "Oh God," He sighs out, not aware he's avoiding a question. "He's got a pulse. He's  _breathing_." A gasping breath, a quieter voice. "He's breathing."

 

 

John's mobile has gone off in his pocket approximately four times since he's started speaking with Dr. Whale. He's emailed Wendy, his parents and grandparents and the closer of his cousins the number, but he knows by the incessant calling - and the fact that John was due at work about two hours ago - that it's Michael.

"Now, obviously for legal reasons I can't tell you anything," Dr. Whale says, unbeknownst to the bothersome vibrations in John's pocket.

"Yes, of course not." John taps at his leg, mostly to beg the device to stop shaking but also to will his hands not to take a lesson from the phone and take up the habit themselves. "But can you at least tell me if he's all right?

"Strictly speaking?" The doctor says, lowering his clipboard down at his side. "No."

Cringing, John nods. It's understandable; privacy and all that. "Thank you for your time, Doctor."

But the man in white nods and takes a step forward, blocking John's way out of the hospital. "I also can't tell you his name is Felix Ratched. Or that you can come during visitation hours and ask him yourself."

John can feel the grin split across his face.  _He's alive._ He nods, quickly, "Thank you."

"What for?" Dr. Whale replies, bringing his clipboard up to his chest and turning to walk away, "I couldn't tell you anything."

Considering he's in the waiting room, John think's he'd be all right to answer his phone - vibrating busily  _again -_ but he waits till he's out the door to do it anyhow. "Yes, Michael? _"_

"Where the hell are you? I wake up and you're gone and  _Nana's_ gone and when I figure you've just gone to work early because that's a very John thing to do, you aren't  _here."_

Pushing his glasses up on his nose, John unties a rather exasperated Nana from the bicycle rack. "I'll be at the bank in an hour."

"An hour? You're two hours late as of now."

John sighs. "I know."

Michael pauses. John can almost see him squint and lean in on his elbows. "Eh? What's the matter?"

"I was out on my run," John mumbled, walking down the street, still predominantly vacant but with a few shopkeepers here and there occupy the sidewalks with enormous paper cups of coffee. He sighs out the rest of it, heart heavy in his chest.

"Shit." Michael says and nothing more.

"I had to call an ambulance, that's all. I think I stayed at the hospital longer than I should have but-"

"No, it's...fine." Michael replies. "Just - I dunno. Come if you can? Do you want to skip out?"

"I'm coming to work, Michael."

"Yeah. Sure. Show up when you can, then. I'll take care of what I can now, though."

John sighs. "Can you handle it?"

He can all but hear his brother rolling his eyes. "I'm taking that as a challenge, just so you know."

And then Michael ends the call, leaving John with a muted bleep of the dead call in his ears and a fifteen minute walk back to his place for a shower and change into something more work-appropriate than running clothes.

He can still see the head of blond snarls, limp on the mud around him. Can still hear the disturbing open roar of exhaust bursting out of the pipe. Nana's bark sounds so close, as though she's still making a racket.

John shakes his head, tries to stop the memory. There's no use; he can't stop himself even after he's home and scrubbing his hair down with a dollop of Aveda and there's warm water spraying around him. There was something bright green in the back-seat, wasn't there? Is he making things up in his mind? Memory is a completely influenceable thing, after all. But he thinks he saw something green tucked away into the back-seat when he'd looked inside and saw Felix Ratched limp there.

And why the hell is he worrying about some green thing when another human being almost died?

He's got to shake this. John pushes the thoughts away while he finishes drying his hair and plugging in his flat iron. His curls haven't formed yet, all weighed down by water, and he'll keep it that way.

It's despicable, what comes to his mind next. For a small moment, heat from the back of the flat iron singeing against the pads of his fingers, and he sees, deep in the dark corners of his mind, himself running through the hallways back in London. He sees himself throwing open a door and dropping to his knees to find Wendy or Michael or Mum or Father dangling from the ceiling. And, the worst part, he's  _thankful_ that he walked in on a stranger.

And he shakes his head immediately. _A life is a life is a life is a life._  This Felix bloke was someone's son, possibly someone's brother, someone's friend. He's a perfect stranger to John but that doesn't mean that he has the right to water down the  _tragedy_ in the events.

' _John Napoleon Darling,'_ he thinks to himself. ' _You are going to hell in a handbasket."_

It's a little bit before noon by the time John pokes his head into Michael's office, although it feels like days have passed. Right now, with nothing inside for furnishings or decoration, Michael is sitting pretzel-legged on the floor, his laptop balanced on an upside down box with FRAGILE written in scrawling Sharpie letters.

"Hey, Michael," John says, "I think I'll take an early lunch today."

"Yeah, go on."

"I"m gonna stop by the hospital." John explains, noticing how Michael's lips press together. "See how he's doing."

"Yeah, sure." Michael continues to nod. "D'you want me to come with? I can always take an early lunch too."

"I'm not even sure if me going over is a good idea." John shakes his head. "I just...I have to know he's okay, y'know?"

"Sure." Michael says. "Just let me know whenever you get back."

"I'll be back in an hour," John says. "Don't worry."

He turns to leave, thankful for the scrap of normalcy stringing behind him as Michael calls out "That's exactly the sort of thing people say before you should worry!"

Felix Ratched's room is 311. The floors and walls are just white, the lights overhead are sterilised and almost blinding in their brightness. John would have lifted his hand to ease the glare from the phosphorescence if it weren't for the small bouquet of yellow lilies in his grasp.

The boy in question sits, awake. He rests limply on his pillows, an oxygen tube under his nose, IVs in his arm and - John stops for a moment to wonder if  _he'd_  done this from breaking the window - a winding scar across his face. (No. Definitely not. It doesn't look fresh enough for that.)

But most striking is the amount of nothingness in the room. Not a single flower or stuffed animal or box of sweets. Not a single person in there with him. It's just this pale boy, limp on a stiff bed, flicking absently through daytime telly.

And that's-that's shocking. John had only ever been admitted into the hospital when he was a kid and he had to get his appendix removed. That had been an easy surgery. He'd awoken and the first thing he remembered greeting his eyes was a  _wall_ of flowers. There were too many overly fragrant bouquets, floor to ceiling. He remembers a whole host of brightly coloured balloons and a big construction paper card from his classmates with  _GET WELL SOON JOHN_ written in blue Crayola. And four  _enormous_ teddy bears sitting by his parents and grandparents' feet.

In fact, the clearest memory John has is that Michael and little baby Wendy had been so jealous of all John's presents that they'd begged Mum and Father to let them get their appendixes out too.

John clears his throat and the boy's eyes shift to him. "Who the hell are you?"

His voice is nice, John thinks - and is immediately ashamed of it. Of course, naturally, it'd be awful if his voice were affected from the gas, but it  _is_ a pleasant sound. A slow countertenor rolling off his tongue with the slightest of Northeastern twangs in his accent.

"Erm," John can feel his ears get hot, he looks down at the flowers in his hands, feeling instantly foolish of them - instantly foolish of  _everything_. "My name's John. I'm the one who…" He fades. "Well I-"

"You're the one who wrecked my car."

John blinks at the coldest hint in his voice. "Well, yes. I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

The boy nods, adjusts his seating and winces as it pulls on his IVs. "Look, I'm not gonna sue you." He leans back and looks up at the TV as though this were something expected. "I've got bigger things to worry about."

"No. That's not why I'm here-"

The TV clicks off and the boy narrows his eyes, attempts to take a deep breath in through his nose over the tube. "So what do you want?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay," John offers weakly, lifting the bouquet for a moment with the smallest of grins. It fades the second he sees the blank look on the boy's face. Dejected, he places it on the beside table.

"And you got me  _flowers,"_ Felix stresses this last bit, eyes flicking over to them as though he's particularly unimpressed. "Because?"

John's eyes snap down at his toes. He can feel his face flush completely. "I figured it was customary."

"So you don't really care."

"What?" John snaps up to look this brat and blinks when he sees him smiling. A closed mouth, calculated, absolutely  _devious_ grin on his face. And John absolutely prefers it to seeing him lying limp on the forest floor.

"Or, you want credit. You want to tell people you were some hero. But you had to make sure it worked out, right?"

"That's not why I'm here." John insists, voice crackling and  _offended_ at the skeptical look in the boy's eyes.

And Felix mumbles, voice dripping like syrup. "Look, I'm not up to this. I'm not gonna feed some rich kid's savior complex."

 _Kid?_ John's got to be three years older than him at least. But, maybe that's the last thing he should worry about. Certain that his face is bright red at this point, John tries again. "I just wanted to make sure you're all right. You  _did_ scare me out of my wits this morning."

Felix, looking small in his hospital bed, blinks. "Why?"

And that, John thinks, might be the most upsetting thing he's seen or heard all day.

He coughs. "Wouldn't you? You're just out for your morning run and-" He can't bring himself to finish his sentence and so he glues his eyes to the floor. Felix doesn't seem willing to continue the conversation and, once the air gets tense, John tries again. "Has your family come to visit you yet?"

Felix's brows draw down, his lip curls, and with a squint and a horribly harsh tilt to his head, he spits, "Do you really think I'd've been sleeping in my car if my family were the type to care if I'm in the hospital?"

John cannot, for the life of him, think of an appropriate reply. And so he sits in silence, waits for another topic to jump to the forefront.

"Er," He mumbles, trying to think of something to say. "How's treatment?"

A deadpan look in Felix's eyes and he sighs. "Oxygen. They put me in a box for a few hours and now it's the tubes. Therapy with Dr. Hopper since they think I need it."

"Are they…" John chews over his words and, he's fairly sure, he chooses the wrong one. 'Optimistic?"

"They seem to think so. I'll be out in a week."

"Oh, that's good, yeah?" John nods. A dark thought squirms its way into his brain and he blurts out the next question without thinking. He just has to know. "Will you be all right?"

"Didn't you  _just_ ask that?"

"No, I mean," John mumbles, trips over his words. "In the long run."

"That isn't really the sort of thing you can tell a stranger." Felix says. His voice is cold but he sits up straighter in his bed, his needle-poked hand far away from the remote. He pauses, looks down at the sheets. Maybe he's just noticing his own delayed movement. " I don't know why you're still here."

"Do you want me to leave?"

Felix stops and pauses. He pinches his own oxygen tube between the pads of his fingers and closes his eyes and lets go. A deep breath later and he says, "Only if you don't have a reason to be here."

 

 

"Yeah, still not sure how I feel about the aquarium," Michael says, scratching the base of his neck. "I mean, we're a bank, not a dentist."

Their designer, a Ms. Zelena Mills, a dangerously beautiful woman with striking blue eyes and loose red curls, frowns. "Well you  _said_ you wanted a statement piece to make an  _impression_."

"What about one of those wall-water-fixture-things?" Michael suggests.

"Oh, that's more like it," Zelena grins, spinning her fingers along a tablet and pulling up a few suggestions of wall-mounted waterfalls from her catalog. "It  _will_ put you a little over the budget you've given me."

John, who situated himself on the farther end of the folding-table when the woman seemed a little too keen on flirting her way through the appointment, rests his chin on his knuckles and says, "Can't you use something cheaper for the floors and window hangings and have it balance out?"

"I suppose. It might look as though those who run the bank don't actually have any money but-"

"Then choose something won't do that." John snaps before he can think. "It's your job, isn't it?"

He doesn't realise how rude he sounds until, after a few moments of silence, Michael speaks up.

"John's uncharacteristic interjection aside, we do need to stay within our budget. Could you run some numbers for off-brand or faux material and get back to us?"

Zelena nods, pouting from John's outburst. It melts and turns into a rather square grin as Michael grabs her coat for her, offers to help it on her shoulders and walks her as far as the lift.

John knows he's in for a lecture when Michael gets back - but it's almost five o'clock on the longest day of John's life. He knows he ought to, but he really doesn't care.

His little brother doesn't disappoint when he returns from the lift, "Okay. What the hell was that about?"  
"We're a  _bank._ We can't go into debt just decorating the home office." He cringes inwardly, circles his hand as he tries to find the words and begins to pack up for the drive home - trying not to be relieved that the day is  _finally_ done. "Base. Thing. HQ. This place."

"I'm  _aware,"_ Michael replies. "But the thing is you're John. And you're never rude. Not even when you really should be - remember that time you almost failed an exam in uni 'cause the other bloke wouldn't give you your notes back?"

John groans and flings his glasses back down on the table. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs. "I know. It's been a long day."

"Yeah. Which is why you're not coming into work tomorrow." John opens his mouth to protest, but Michael holds his hand out to silence him, looking oddly like their  _mother_ as he does so. "I can handle tomorrow just fine. You just sit and watch shit telly and play with the dog."

"I'll be  _fine_ by tomorrow."

"Maybe but you should've taken  _today_ off and now we're behind."

John groans, rubs at his eye with the knuckle on his thumb and slides his specs back on his face. "I don't know why it bothered me so much. I mean, I don't  _know_ him."

"Really John?" Michael blinks back at his brother, picking up his briefcase and fumbling through his keys on their way out. "Anyone would be shaken up, you know. Nothing wrong with it."

Nodding, John sighs and packs up the rest of his things without another word. He knows Michael's right, but it doesn't add up, not in his head. While there's reasons, John just can't shake the feeling that he should be functioning normally. Felix lived. Nana found him in time. He's a bit of a prick, but he's a prick who's  _alive._ Why can't John just let this go? He can almost  _see_ Grandfather Aster wagging his wrinkly finger in his face.

" _Come along, John. Do be a man."_

" _Where's that stiff upper lip?"_

" _Business first, John. Always put business first."_

Hm. Maybe that's it.

They're in the car, the new red one Michael bought first thing in Maine, when the conversation picks up again.

"So," Michael says, "How did it go at the hospital today? You never told me."

"Er, well. There's not much to tell."

"He's all right, though?" Michael shifts his gaze from traffic to look at his brother in the passenger seat every few words.

"Well, yeah. He was conscious and articulate." John sighs, adding in an understated, "Most definitely."

"How do you mean?"

"Well he was," John pauses, sighs. "Angry. Though I suppose that can be expected. But I think I was the only person to visit him. He just seems-alone."

Michael pauses, drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Then, after a short moment and a sharp turn into the residential areas of town, he says, "Are you planning on visiting him again tomorrow?"

"No," John blinks, splutters a little although he can't figure out why. He can still see the kid's stony glare, can still feel the jumpiness he'd felt when it was directed at him. "I don't want to interfere."

Raising a brow, Michael frowns. "You found him, unconscious in a running car in the woods at six in the morning. That sounds, to me, like a little interference is exactly what he needs."

And this conversation is exactly what John decides to blame when he finds himself wandering to Room 311 in the hospital the very next day.

Felix notices him lingering in the doorway, lips perking into a small sneer and reaching for the remote control, he snaps the TV off . He looks at John with dull eyes. "What do you want?"

John's ears get hot as he and wanders slowly into the room. It's just as plain as before, except for the one bouquet of yellow lilies on the bedside table. He looks down at his toes, takes off his glasses to clean them on the hem of his shirt. "My name's John. I'm thirty. My birthday's in April. I just moved here from London with my brother Michael; we have an old Newfoundland named Nana, and I take her for a run every morning. I hate cabbage and turnips but I do fancy rutabaga and parsley." He looks around the room, pausing for a moment. "When I was little I used to try to wear this big top hat everywhere I went. And..." He pauses, looks up at the ceiling. "My favourite colour is blue."

"What the hell?"

John shrugs. "You told me to have a reason. My reason is that decades from now, after neither of us have thought about this in years, it's going to pop up in our brains. So we might as well put some substance to the memory."

And for some reason Felix gapes. His eyes go wide for a brief moment and he purses his lips. John feels the heat of a sunbeam through the lens of a magnifying glass. Scrutiny for a moment and he stops in his tracks. But that scrutiny melts into large sad eyes and a distressed frown. At long last, Felix mumbles. "You...you remind me of someone."

No sooner can John react than Felix squints and shakes his head. "Nevermind."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you don't remind me of him anymore." Felix says. His voice is so level that John cannot, for the life of him, tell if the kid is mocking him or just informing him of his intentions. "That expression you're wearing killed it."

"What expression?

"That one."

And, although Felix's response isn't anything even remotely helpful, it doesn't stop John from coming back the next day, lingering in the doorway till Felix sees him, mutters with a voice manufactured to sound indifferent, "You're back."

John takes his strides slowly, simple long steps forward with his hands buried in his trouser pockets. "Well you never told me your favourite colour yesterday…"

 

 

It's early in the evening; John's lying on the couch with his head sinking into a tower of throw pillows and his laptop balancing precariously on his knees, scrolling mindlessly through social media and the tab of budgets and agendas ready right next to it, just in case. Michael's sitting pretzel-legged on the floor, matting Nana's fur with one hand and brushing her with the other one while some hospital programme running as a background on the telly.

"Michael?" John asks after, perhaps twenty minutes of silence, "D'you know where the tennis club is?"

"Is that something I should know?"

John shrugs. "No, I was just wondering. Dr. Whale invited me on the Friday after next."

"Do you play?"

"No, but I'd rather not decline the invitation."

"Fair enough," Michael says with a congenial grin as he turns back to Nana's long coat. "How's all that going at the hospital, by the way?"

"How do you mean?"

"You've been going on your lunch every day this week. I'd wager the nurses all know you by name. You spend a lot of time there, is all." Michael shoots John a toothy grin and adds, sobering, "And he's still doing well, yeah?"

"Yeah." John nods, lips perking up into a small grin. "They took him off oxygen today."

There's something enchanting in stepping into Felix's room each day and catching the tiniest glimpse of this kid's regeneration. It's like a snapshot each day: he's a little less pale, he's breathing a little more easily, a little more willing to sit and talk.

"He's been on oxygen all this time?"

"It took a little longer than usual. He used to smoke a lot. Quit three years ago."

"Oh. Good for him. Do you know when he'll be let out, then?"

"Depends on his psychiatric evaluation...and - you know, I'm hardly qualified to say anything but..." John says, slowly lowering the screen on his laptop till it's shut. and runs a hand through his fringe. "Oh, I don't know. He's confusing."

"People usually are," Michael says through a wry grin. He stops playing with Nana's fur and turns around to face his brother. "Do you like him?"

First impression aside, John thinks, and forgetting the fact it's as though the kid is  _trying_ to push the limits of likability, there is something  _endearing_ there. And so, he says, "I think so, yeah."

He purposely holds his lips together when thinking about it. Felix's got a dark, dry sense of humour that sometimes makes it out between the cracks when he's trying to be too serious. He's always baiting John. The points of their conversations always have to be clever or else he'll get that far off look in his eyes and he'll snap shut again.

He snaps shut a lot. But sometimes he'll smile. And when that happens, it's like all the hollows in his face from where it looks particularly skinny fill in, and his eyes flash and they're smart and bright and devoted.

And  _nothing_ can make him smile the same way talking about his friends can. He won't talk about them, not for too long, but sometimes John will say something that reminds Felix of a friend with a funny nickname from a long time ago, and he'll see it all the same.

And so, John figures his first impression of Felix was very wrong. In fact, the kid might even be all right. He might even be good.

A week later, and John thinks that maybe, in a month or two, this will all blow over. That he won't think back to his first month in the States on a daily basis. Or about how he hasn't seen Felix since he was discharged from the hospital. Storybrooke  _feels_ so small that he thought for sure he'd bump into the kid at the supermarket or the chemist. But nothing.

And John's beginning to realise, as he's getting more and more inquiries and notices for people willing to turn their savings over to the Darling Bank Corporation, Storybrooke is actually much larger than it seems.

And it isn't as though John's had much time to think about the kid. Yes, he catches himself wringing his hands over the possibility that history will repeat and he'll see the kid's photograph in the obituaries. But there isn't much time to stew. He's been too busy with the impossible task of putting together a headquarters for an Americanised branch of the bank within a week.

Although he hasn't been completely on his own with it - he has Michael and Father is overseeing it all online and technically most of it was done over the summer. It's just finalising it all that John has to worry about.

And things have started to settle down. John wakes up to his alarm, takes Nana out on her run straight through town and down by the docks, takes a shower, irons his suit, straightens his hair to his usual morning playlist of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath, and usually has enough time that he and Michael can get coffee from that charming diner down on Main Street with that waitress Michael's taken a fancy to.

And he rarely ever thinks about what happened to Felix.

Or, rather, he rarely has the  _time._

He shakes the thoughts from his head when he almost drops the stack of manilla folders in his arms. .He figures he can blame it, not on absentmindedness, but on a wrinkle in the rug. And, just to make sure it's clear that there is a wrinkle there, he runs his shoe on the heavy material until it scrunches. It really is a lovely rug, though.

His printed out, color-coded schedule for the day fell to the ground, but he can still see most of it from where he stands. Today's lineup is interviews and only interviews. Thankfully management and corporate has been decided by his father overseas, but it's John and Michael's responsibility to hire tellers for this branch as well as the office assistance. And they've taken great measures to decided who will take the day to conduct which interviews.

Paper beats rock, and so John's in charge of hiring the tellers.

He finishes gulping down his coffee and gathers his materials for the interviews.

It's only a week after John dropped all the folders and he's still - evidently - destined to drop everything that finds its way into his hands.

He's spilt coffee on his tie. He spilt  _hot_ coffee on his  _sky blue_ tie and Michael hasn't stopped laughing about it since the ground floor. John had shoved him out of the lift the second the doors opened, a benign growl in his throat and a short "Shut up" under his breath.

Michael only held out his arms. "Oh come on. You'd laugh if it were me."

And John only rolled his eyes, gave a friendly hello to his secretary (a quiet woman by the name of Elsa Frost) and trundled into the private toilet through the staff lounge.

Cringing at the reflection in the wall, or rather at the dark brown stains on that reflection, John sighs and begins to unloop the windsor knot at his throat. It looks like most of the coffee fell on his tie. And, perhaps, if he gets it soaking in a sink he can get it out.

_That's what you do with stains, right? Soak them?_

And so he fills the basin with water -  _and oh, what is it supposed to be for stains? Cold? Hot? Lukewarm is probably the best option._

He slides the tie from around his neck, can feel the cold slippery fabric from where it jumped from under his collar during the unknotting process and, once the it's done, he lets out an emphatic,  _"Oh brilliant"_ as he finds that a small trail of coffee-brown had splattered right on the front of his shirt.

Perhaps a waistcoat might cover it. But, John presses his lips together, naturally he didn't bring a waistcoat today. Holding the blue tie under the stream of water with one hand, he pushes off the top three buttons on his shirt.

_Maybe if I slide it to the side and button my jacket…._

He looks like he'd only just rolled out of bed. And the stain is still entirely visible. With a grunt, John smooths down the shirt on his chest.

Folding up a brown paper towel he runs that over the water, squeezes it out, and dabs it rather intensely over the offending stain and while that helps a little, it's still entirely visible. And - irritatedly - John sighs.

Perhaps this is as professional as he'll manage to look today. No tie, two buttons undone, and an embarrassing coffee splatter right over his heart.

 _On the bright side, John,_ He thinks, plugging the sink with the unstained parts of his tie and rotating the switches until the stream of water thins out and stops.  _At least you're not meeting with investors today._

Taking his re-entry into the hall, John can't help but notice how easily one room leads into another, from the colours of the carpets and the texture of the blinds. It all looks very  _together,_ although John can't pinpoint exactly why. Their designer did a great job, at least on his floor. His office matches the waiting room and Michael's office without looking like a copy. Even the longue ties in. Everything is an old fashioned chic, with leather chairs and, John notices as he returns to the main floor with the waiting rooms and offices, that damn hanging waterfall Michael had wanted just pulls it all together, streaming down a thin wall of water hung up in front of the doors by the waiting room. He really should send their designer a basket to thank her. And, er, he ought to apologise as well.

Michael's hunched over the desk on the wall opposite Elsa, gesturing to the monitor and giving a spiel about training. Absently, John checks the time.  _7:13._

A little late for this man's first day but, John supposes, not too late. Depending on how strictly Michael wants his assistant to adhere to times -and John figures Michael might be more lax on that on the firm grounds that this is  _Michael._

He thinks rather happily that things are off to a good start when he stops in front of Elsa's desk. "Everything going well so far?"

No sooner has Elsa nodded and offered a monosyllabic reply of the affirmative than a voice sounds on the other end of the room.

" _What the hell."_

John looks up and-

Oh Lord.

"Michael, can I see you in my office for a minute?"

John stumbles over a bin on his way to the right hand office, flushing as many shades of red as he's sure it's possible to flush; Michael follows,eyes narrowed and his hands easily resting in his pockets.

"What did you do?" John says before Michael can ask.

And Michael stops. "Er. I was showing my secretary the training programme?"

John snatches his glasses in hand, wipes them off on the non-stained hem of his shirt and looks out the window into the main lobby. Surely enough, right across the way, in clear view from John's office, Felix sits in a swiveling office chair. The kid isn't doing much, only sitting with a sort of  _glare_ on his face, eyes firmly planted on the ground.

And John whispers, hating the harsh  _whine_ that's threatening to creep up. "Do you know who that is?"

"His name's Felix Ratched. What of it?"

"Michael that's  _Felix."_

"That is literally exactly what I just said."

"No _,_ you don't get it. That's Felix _,"_ John turns back from the window, runs a hand through his hair, "You know…from..." He swallows. "From the car?"

" _Oh."_ He can almost see the cartoonish light bulb switch on over Michael's head. "Well, that's good, isn't it? You were all strung up about not knowing what's happened to him. Now you do."

"I know just," John rests his forehead on his knuckles in exasperation. "Oh-I don't know. What's wrong with me?"

"Look," Michael says, straightening his back and holding his arms out in front of his sides like he usually does when he's running business meetings. "I'm his boss and I'm not gonna let him be an arse to you, all right? And otherwise this is a pretty good sign, right? People who are planning to try to kill themselves again don't really plan for the future, do they? Seek long-term employment? I mean - we've got dental and I'm pretty sure that's a big deal over here."

"I know. I just-can't shake this." John mutters, smoothing down his fringe with a hand, figuring he might've gnarled it in his anxiety.

"Give it a bit," Michael suggests, "Soon enough it'll be the new normal."

But, of course, almost the minute Michael leaves and shuts the door behind himself in his own office, Felix bursts through the doors to John's, almost  _stomps_ straight up to his desk and knits his arms across his chest. "Did you have anything to do with this? With me getting hired here?"

John wrinkles his nose in spite of himself. He really doesn't know how to react to this. Americans are brash, yes, but the audacity slaps him into shock for brief moment and all he can ask is for clarification. "Sorry?"

"I don't want your charity."

"It isn't charity, it's-it's employment." John clarifies. He coughs into his fist and with a small breath, attempts to channel the way he's seen his father and grandfather interact with upset friends. Employees, John means. "And I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Michael hired you completely on his own."

Felix presses his lips together, squints as though trying to detect a lie. And then, he nods, although perhaps he doesn't believe it. "All right."

_I don't want your charity._

The ugly implication hits John like lightning and he does everything he can to keep composure. To keep a stiff upper lip and not stick his nose where he shouldn't.

But some things are quite impossible to ignore.

It's like an anvil on his head.  _I don't want your charity._ And fuck all if John was going to let this go unsaid. Brat.

"You know," John mutters, temper rising as he gets to his feet to equalise their heights. "I'm not going to  _apologise_ for pulling you out of that car."

Felix steps back, grey eyes narrowed but this time John can't see any spite or challenge in them. Only confusion. "Why would I ask you to apologise?" He adds in after a beat, "You saved my life."

John's more than certain he must be red as a tomato at this point; his face so hot he can all but anticipate his specs fogging up.

"Wait." Felix's voice edges lower than usual. "You...do you think I was trying to kill myself?"

If feels like there's a bloody hammer in John's chest when he replies. "Weren't you?"

And Felix stares at John as though he's never seen him before in his life. Open mouthed, wide-eyed, breath faltering just a little. John doesn't like the way this feels at all and so he tries to mitigate it with a confused look and a small, "What were you doing, then?"

"I-" Felix pauses, colour fades and diffuses into white. "I fell asleep."

His tone is one that intends to close a conversation and so John sits back down. With a small cough, he opts not to leave them in silence and says, "So do you have a preference for lunch?"

And Felix frowns, eyes flicking with light and then he offers the smallest of smiles and shakes his head. "No."

John notices Felix's eyes flick down. Without his buttons all secure, John feels oddly exposed and straightens in his chair.

Felix shakes his head a moment later. "You've got a stain."

Oh. Right. John remembers now: he spilt hot coffee on his sky blue tie and Michael wouldn't stop laughing about it. Allowing himself to  _breathe,_ although he finds it odd that he hadn't been before, John nods.

"Nothing a little bleach won't fix." He's really got no idea over the finer parts of laundry. He can throw a few loads in a washing machine but he's at something of a loss when it comes to removing stains. There had always been people who'd do that for him. And so, he adds, "Hopefully."

He sees a flash of teeth on Felix's face. A tentative smile. And he's only just articulated the word  _lovely_ in his head before Felix  _agrees,_ murmuring, "Yeah. Hopefully."

 

 

**October**

 

This time, John  _really_ can't blame it on jetlag. He really can't blame it on anything. He hasn't had copious amounts of caffeine or sugar or alcohol. It's not like he's ever had time to take naps. He doesn't use his bedroom for anything but sleeping, and he's read some place that limiting bedroom activities to sleeping and sex can help with insomnia. And John hasn't had sex in...has it been a year already?

Two years?

Well, anyway, the point is that he can't sleep.

And that's why, after he's turned and rolled over enough times to have ground out a rut deep enough to strike oil, he figures he might as well cut his losses and head back to the office. There are papers to go through; he's sure Father has replied to one of his inquiries through email. It's five in the morning in London so he might be able to grab a conference with him about the opening. And if not, there's more than enough things to look through. Budgets and advertisements and reports and conversions to be done between the British and American currencies.

Figuring he won't stay in the office all morning, he throws on a pair of denims and a henley. The house is so eerily quiet at this time of day. It's so different from living in London, where there was always the rush of cars and, in the late hours, the pattering feet of pedestrians and the understated drawl of their conversations. But here, there's nothing. Just the tidal swell of crickets singing their one-note tune in the bushes and trees. An owl hoots, somewhere in the woods.

So maybe not so quiet after all, John's willing to admit after he's done brushing his teeth. Nana's there to greet him in the hallway when he leaves the toilet, large tail wagging and large head and bright eyes secured on him.

When he was little, they had a St. Bernard and he'd always give her a false commentary when they played games. And although he isn't so forward about it, for a moment, he thinks that Nana is policing him. ' _Mr John, what are you doing out of bed at this ghastly hour?'_

And then John remembers that he's thirty years old and probably should not be pretending his dog can speak to him.

A quick search on his mobile and John's incredibly relieved to find there's a twenty-four hour cab service in Storybrooke. He calls them with the phone snug between this shoulder and his ear while his hands as he mixes the ingredients a quick breakfast shake. He figures the house is big enough that he could probably use the blender without waking Michael up and shred the ice but he opts against it. Instead he mixes the orange juice with the protein powder and drops a few ice cubes into his thermos. The cab's headlights roll into the driveway shortly after.

Office buildings at 1:30 in the morning are, in a word, unsettling. They're cold and dark and abandoned. John finds himself shivering in his coat when he steps into the back entrance of the bank, where the employees go, swiping a card and punching in his I.D number for the added security.

He'll have to type in a second number when he gets inside and confirm this unprogrammed entrance at his computer sometime in the next few hours.

The lift is ungodly bright when he steps inside and punches the 5 on the wall, and it lights up just to make things brighter. As though that actually affected anything. But it doesn't take long for his eyes to adjust and he's counting the floors as he goes up.

G. Ground floor. The bank with its marble floors and mahogany desks and pens chained to the tables along the outside of the wall.

2\. Even though this is the first storey, it's considered the second floor here. The offices and space for people who work specifically for the Storybrooke branch - the managers and brokers and a small staff lounge.

3 is a floor entirely dedicated to conference rooms. There's one that's already hooked up to Apple TV and Skype capable for the inevitable future meetings with the home branch of the banks and then others for team meetings or for all the times John knows he'll have to conduct meetings with the general manager or with everyone else in corporate - which brings him to

4\. The corporate offices. Pretty much everyone in charge of anything on the American end works here. Everyone except for him and Michael. And that, too, flows rather prettily into the next floor above.

5\. The floor John shares solely with Michael. The COO and CMO.

The lift  _pings,_ a squeaky mechanical sound that comes off more than a little baleful, but John only sighs and waits for the doors to part.

The only light, except for the red pinpricks indicating the fire and burglar alarms, is from the picture window behind Elsa and Felix's desks. All he can see is the natural grey of the starlight reflected off the red and yellow leaves and the shivering waves of the sea a little further out.

He flips on the lightswitch and only takes two steps towards his office before something catches his eye. Something oddly shaped curled up on the couch. Something  _human_ shaped curled up on the couch. Before he can stop himself he  _yells_ from surprise and falls backwards, almost off his feet.

There's a rustling and a jolt from the couch and Felix springs to his feet, an instinctive, "What?" on his breath.

Once he can see and understand what just happened - the light switched on. John saw a body on the couch. He made a noise. The noise woke the body up. And now they're starting at each other. It's a rather clean-cut chain of cause-to-effect.

And yet.

After a few deep breaths and John gets control of his pulse the peculiarity of the situation crashes down on him. It's an anvil and he finds himself taking a seat on one of the armchairs underneath its weight.

He removes his glasses to clean them on his shirt before he asks, "Felix, what are you doing here?"

For a snappish second, John can see headlights in Felix's eyes and the kid sucks a breath in between his front teeth. A moment later, his usual lovely drawl returns as he explains, "I worked late. I guess I decided to rest for a minute and fell asleep."

And, really, it would be easy for John to believe that, the kid said it with such conviction. There was only one, glaring thing wrong with his story. And John bites his lip, hating himself for nosing in and pointing it out. "Okay. Then explain the pyjamas."

It isn't really  _nosing,_ John thinks. He's in charge of the building and, strictly speaking, one isn't supposed to  _sleep_ in one's workplace. He's fairly certain there's some rule or law against that.

Felix face drains all colour. He's whiter than a sheet and his mouth hangs open. But all he says, the bite in his voice utterly juvenile. "Explain the henley."

"What's wrong with my shirt?" John blinks, looking down at his own chest. And Felix looks at him with something that's almost contempt and that's really unfair. John has every power in the world to fire this boy and it's almost like he's trying to be. But that doesn't add up. Not at all. He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter." He looks up at the boy, still standing on the other side of the couches, palms of his hands pressed over the flannel trousers on his hips. And John has to venture to ask him. "Felix, are you living here?"

And Felix just straightens his back. An easy enough answer.

The next sigh comes out heavily in John's breath and he isn't entirely certain why but it bears down on him like that anvil never left his shoulders. Dammit. Michael probably gave him permission to sleep here. He's always been more willing to break the rules. And now John has to override that; he has to be a villain right now. Grandfather Aster's voice is in his head again, spouting off the importance of always adhering to the rules. And so, John shakes his head. "I can't let you do that. We aren't zoned for residence. I could get into a lot of trouble if it comes out that I let you do this."

Felix blows out, lips flaring in an almost petulant way. But then he nods and his knees wobble for an instant, and almost resembling a baby giraffe, he collapses onto the couch.

"Am I fired?"

John blinks. When did he say that? "No."

Though by all means nobody would question him if he did. But there were more important things at hand. John leans forwards, arms resting on his knees. "Do you have any other place to go?"

"My car's on hold at Tillman's." Felix mumbles. "I can't pay to fix it just yet."

"You're living out of your car?" John's voice cracks on the final consonant and he stares with wide, broken eyes. That's reason enough, John thinks, for Michael to have been sympathetic enough to allow this.

"Not now, obviously."

It's so final, Felix's tone. It makes John's pulse speed up. And he blinks, pathetically trying to think of something to say.

The reply comes out before he can think about it, "But what address did you put on your resume?"

_Because that's something you should be saying right now. Bravo, John Darling. You are a complete and utter twat._

"My parents'." Felix says. "That's technically my permanent address."

"And I assume you can't move back in?"

The headlights are back in Felix's eyes. There's nothing in his eyes but fear. Unreasonable and juvenile; it's the exact look that both Michael and Wendy would have during thunderstorms and no explanation of barometric pressure would console them. And so, John nods and presses his lips into a thin line.

"I'm not gonna throw you out in the street." He says and Felix nods, a small smile on his face and John's going to interpret that as a grateful one. But rules are rules and he doesn't know  _why_ he's not willing to let them bend in this unique situation but it's out before he can swallow back the words. "But I can't let you stay here either."

"I won't tell," Felix offers. "If I'm caught; you don't know anything."

John shakes his head. It's not a matter of  _if_ it's a matter of  _when._ The janitors will damn well notice and notice quickly and John's not going to lay Felix off for this. If this is the only job that let him in - if the paycheque from this position was going to repair his car and give him a place to go - John's not going to tear him away from that lifeline. Not when this kid came so close to severing it only a few weeks before.

"And I can't lie  _when_ I'm questioned about it."

Felix gnaws on the inside of his cheek and, rather funnily,  _slumps_ onto his side on the couch. He's lying on his side, pressed up against the back of the cushions and his shirt has ridden up just a little. There's a sliver of pale skin in John's line of sight. A few sketch marks of black ink that look completely haphazard to John are visible, hiding away under the rest of the t-shirt.

Hiding the cough in his throat, John whispers. "Do you have a plan?"

"My plan was to crash here every night," Felix mumbles. "But I'll think of something."

"Do you need a place to stay in the meantime? Want one, I mean?"

It's out before John can reel it back in and he stops. He can feel the red on his face - it didn't bother to diffuse from his neck and ears, not this time. He's a little appalled at himself and a little afraid that Felix will say  _No._ Either way this is highly unprofessional. But what does professionalism matter? This is a boy's life, here. His well-being.

Felix looks up, suddenly propped up on his elbows. His jaw's gaping and John honestly does not take the time to notice it.

At long last, he says, "Didn't I tell you I don't want your charity?"

"Yeah," John admits. "But it really isn't charity this time either. It's me saving my own arse."

"How?"

A wistful sigh and John waves his hand, mumbles through the explanation. "When the janitors find out you're living here and they report you, I'm going to be caught in the crosshairs when I don't fire you."

"You're inviting me to stay at your house because of your reputation in your family business?" Felix's deadpan tone might be comical if he was, in any way, inaccurate.

"It's a lot messier than I'd like it to be." John admits.

And for another moment, it's silence. They're far enough above the ground so the crickets aren't heard. And so it's just silence. Creeping silence that allows the acid to spit in John's gut, for the pang in his chest to wonder why it's there.

And it feels like hours have passed when Felix sighs. He runs a hand through his blond snarls and, after a long pause, says, "I could use a shower."

"I'll call the cab," John replies with a small grin, standing up and whipping his mobile out of his pocket. He tries not to notice when Felix stands and pulls a bright green dufflebag out from underneath his desk.

The bright thing John saw, that flash of neon in the corner of his eye when he was wrestling Felix's limp body out of the car. That must've been it.

He really  _was_ living out of his car.

John pushes it aside when the phone stops ringing and a voice that sounds a bit too cheery for 1:55 in the morning.  _"Bonsoir! You've reach'd the nummer for the Firefly Taxi, Storybrooke's only 24-hours-every-day-for sho taxicab. You speakin' to Raymond!"_

The cab is such a bright yellow it almost  _glows._ It arrives quickly after John makes the call, around 2:10 and Felix doesn't bother to wait for John to finish typing in his code to lock up for the night. John doesn't necessarily blame him for it, still in thin flannel and a t-shirt; Felix must be freezing. He slides into the cab once he's certain that the building is locked and security systems are fully operational. He checks the motion sensors, figuring Felix disabled them when he returned for the night, and is thankful he looked when his assumption turns out to be correct.

He scrunches next to the door when he closes it, turning to the red-headed and kind-eyed cabbie. The licence by the front has his signature in bright yellow ink.  _Raymond._ And he grins a grin that's missing teeth and says, "Hope you're havin' a pleasant evenin', cap."

"Thank you," John replies, nodding briskly.

"Your friend here" - and John has to pause when he hears this word. He wouldn't use it himself to describe his relationship with Felix. But the assumption doesn't make him wince so much as it makes jaw slacken by the tiniest increments. He hopes it's not noticeable.. - "Told me already there's only gonna be one stop. But he don't know where I'll be takin' ya'll."

There's a suggestiveness in his tone, but it's lighthearted enough. And John can't really blame him; he's certain Raymond is used to seeing a certain sort of character these times of night. So he allows it to brush off his shoulders and says clearly, "110 Mifflin Street."

From his periphery, John can see Felix's jaw drops. He turns to the boy pressed against the opposite door only to see him  _gaping._ "Seriously?"

"What?" John can feel the heat creeping along his neck, something similar to fear sitting in his chest.

"I a-think he's referrin' to the fact that Mifflin Street is the fanciest street we got here in Storybrooke," Raymond says cheerfully, kindly resetting the mile counter up front before putting it into drive. "Sounds from your address that you're next-door-neighbors to ol' Madam Mayor."

"Well, er," John shifts his weight somewhat uncomfortably. "Somebody has to be, I suppose."

And, he isn't sure why, but Felix snorts. It's a funny sound; a strange twist to his face when his lips turn up and he shakes his head to turn and look out the window.

Raymond the cabbie seems to nod to the face and cheerfully grins once more. "Well don't cha go worrying about nothing. I'll get you home lickity split."

John nods. "Thank you, Raymond."

"Oh shoot, cap'." The cabbie says, pulling out from the tall bank building and into the emptiness of Main Street, "Most folks 'round here just call me Ray."

When John steps out of the cab, making sure to tip Ray generously as an extra appreciation for his late hours, he turns and sees his house with brand new eyes as he sees how Felix  _stares_. His lips were firmly pressed into a line, and John thinks it's probably to hide his surprise.

And, it's embarrassing. Everything feels far too posh, all of a sudden. The black iron gate, the large front lawn with neatly trimmed shrubberies. Even the front door seems too presumptuous. He won't pay any mind though, or so he resolves when he unlocks the door. Nana blows it open instantly. Jumping excitedly on John's shoulders, tail wagging.

To this, Felix grins. And John can see his teeth with them. They're straight and white and seem to fill all the hollows in his face.

"What is that?" Felix murmurs. "A bear?"

John pauses at the odd choice of words but, shoving the heap of fur off his shoulders, pats Nana on her thick skull. He runs his hand thoughtfully down her spine, checks under her fur in a joke he hopes won't come off as lame. "You know, I thought so but she's more active in the winter."

Yeah, that was definitely better in his head.

Felix rolls his eyes, but his smile remains when he crouches down to run his hands through the white and brown fur. Nana turns her head and, tail beating against John's leg, proceeds to slobber all over their guest.

"Oh, no. Nana! Down, girl!" He pulls on her collar, and thankfully the beast is obedient. He winces at Felix, thankful it's dark enough that he won't be able to see the multiple shades of red on his face. "Sorry about that."

"I'll see it as a compliment," Felix mutters, returning to stand at his full height.

John nods and opens the door, shooing Nana in ahead of them and gesturing for Felix to proceed him in. When he does, John can't help but notice that they seem to be exactly the same height.

How hasn't he noticed yet?

He swallows his embarrassment when leading Felix through the house. Everything's so perfectly decorated and posh and for some reason it feels like bragging. Part of him want to inform Felix that he didn't bother spending the time on this; that his mother had insisted they hire Ms. Zelena Mills to decorate their residence as well. But John's been around long enough to know such remarks have the opposite effect as he intends and so he keeps his mouth shut till they reach the guest room on the opposite end of the hall as John's.

"You can sleep in here. The shower's two doors down on your right." He whispers when he opens the door, careful not to wake Michael. For a beat, there's silence. Stillness. He can hear the crickets again. There's nothing more to do, so he backs away. "It's late, we should both probably go to bed."

Felix nods and John turns away, ready to shut the door behind himself.

"John?" Felix says, vocalised, in that high-low drone of his.

"Yeah?"

The tiniest of smiles comes next, tight and contained to the corner of Felix's face. He looks pained at first, but then it comes. Words John never thought he'd ever hear in that voice.

"Thank you."

With a heavy sigh, John grins. He's sure it's too big for the situation, too broad, too goofy. But it's two o'clock in the morning and he's never heard anything similar to  _softness_ or  _compassion_ in Felix's voice before. He'll indulge himself. Just this once. And he nods, murmuring, "Sweet dreams," before sealing the door behind him. He lingers there for the briefest of moments. Upon looking over his shoulder, however, he sees Nana lying just in front of Michael's door, canine eyes resting intently upon him. And, with that exposure, he immediately snaps himself out of it and trudges with heavier footfalls than would be polite back to his room. Alone.

John makes nothing more than angry, murderous grunts as he pours his coffee into the mug. He hasn't been this ridiculously exhausted since uni and he can't say he misses the red-eyed, cranky disposition it puts him under. He feels like he's walking through paste and he's nodded twice already.

He pulls back the foil covering of the espresso shots and, rather unceremoniously dumps the contents of two of them into his mug, followed by a large  _glug_ of Half & Half that will probably make his drink more cream than coffee. But all he really wants is the caffeine anyway.

By the time Michael comes bouncing down the stairs, John's still leaning with both elbows on the countertop, feeling the warmth radiate from the ceramic in both hands, and continues to wonder if it would give him a heart attack to pour Red Bull in with the rest of his drink.

Michael's confusion, however, stops his thoughts. He's stopped curiously in the entrance to the kitchen, brows furrowed down. He holds up a finger as a vague gesture to John and then with his other hand points back up the stairs and then back to John.

"The shower's running upstairs." Michael says by way of announcing himself, taking a few slow steps onto the tile of the kitchen.

"Mm?" John mumbles, not ready for articulate conversation.

"But you're down here." Michael finishes.

"Yeah." God, John's exhausted.

"So are we just wasting water," Michael approaches the coffeemaker, pouring himself a mug. He drinks it black, pausing to take a long draught before finishing his question. "Or does it take a long time to heat up? Or do you have a mysterious person in your shower?"

It's too early for the sun to be up, dammit. John pauses to take a short angry sip and stare at the tan liquid in his hands before mumbling. "Oh. That's just Felix."

And Michael stops in his tracks, "Felix? Felix  _Ratched,_ Felix? Felix, my secretary, Felix?" An absurd Cheshire grin slowly slithers up Michael's face as he says, "Oh, my God. You  _didn't!_ "

The question wakes John up quicker than the espresso could ever dream to. " _No, I didn't."_ He says firmly. "Look, you  _know_ I can't allow him to keep on sleeping in the office. So I let him kip in at the spare room."

Grin evaporated from his face, Michael stops, his fingers steeple on his mug. "He been sleeping in the office?"

"You didn't know?" John stops.

"No."

John supposes that makes sense. Felix doesn't seem to be the sort who would bother with asking permission. "Point is, I invited him to stay till he finds better arrangements."

Blinking and pouring himself a second cup, Michael mutters, incredulous, "And he went for that?"

"Why so surprised?"

Michael shrugs. "I dunno. From what I've seen, he just doesn't seem to be the sort who takes  _kindness_ very well."

"He isn't," John replies. "But I suppose he's coming around."

 _Thank you._ The words bounce around in his skull. John opens his mouth to divulge this information but finds himself shutting his mouth again. It seems as though, for some reason, he wants to keep all that - those two words- for himself.

The wrinkles in Felix's suit have a more dubious undertone, John realises, when they're all loaded up into Michael's car and heading off to the bank. He looks into the back seat through the mirror on the visor, seeing Felix curl up all his long limbs to the best of his ability to stare out the window. The mark of laziness in Felix's appearance was nothing more than an inability to take the time to look professional. John's eyes shift in the mirror from looking at Felix back to his own eyes.

How much time has he wasted pressing and ironing suits and flattening his hair while other people are off, risking their only form of employment to curl up in the office?

_"Business first, John. Always put business first."_

John swats at the air, combing his fingers along his fringe. Where did that interjection come from? He's thinking about his own vanity, not about the well-being of another person. That's what he  _should_ be worrying about, he realises, sinking into his seat to hide his own embarrassment.

When they arrive at the office, Elsa seems surprised to see the three of them enter together, but thankfully she has enough tact not to mention anything.

John heads down the stairs at 8:15. He's a little behind schedule, he'll have to make do with a glass of orange juice and a flapjack, but he'd taken a bit longer in the shower than usual, letting the hot water beat against his skin, scald away the goose pimples, and warm him from the chilly autumn air.

He's starting to lull himself into a business mindset, thinking about numbers and accounts and logs and conversion from U.S dollars into pounds so he'll be able to give a more fluid presentation on the success of the bank. And that's when he catches it. Or, rather, when his olfactory senses get a rather abrupt beating. Either way, he catches the smell and bounds down into the kitchen towards the scent of burning eggs.

And when he arrives in the doorway, the fan above the stove is whirring and a window is open and there's a carton of egg shells on the counter, and a very exasperated Felix scraping a plate of charred, blackened goop into the bin.

The sight is almost shocking in its domesticity. John would never have thought he'd see Felix with a frying pan in hand, actually trying to cook something. It's so common, so normal, that it seems unusual for someone like Felix.

Relieved that the house isn't about to catch on egg-induced fire, John leans up on the counter. "Eggs?"

"Not anymore," Felix growls in frustration when he notices there are no more eggs left in the carton and throws them in the bin and John has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at just how angry Felix is over this, the way his brows are knit and his mouth droops.

"We'll stop at Granny's on the way to the office if you've got your heart set on them."

"They weren't for me," Felix spits, slamming the cupboard door closed over the bin and slapping a wet rag over the counter where the slime from the eggs had oozed onto the marble. "They were supposed to be for you and Michael."

"Us?" John hums in his confusion, swirling the dial on the stove to  _OFF_ and returning the salt and pepper into their rightful place in the cupboards.

And Felix grints the reg onto the stone, not looking up. "Michael gave me a job. You've given me a place to stay and - well," He pauses his words, hand still gliding over the counter and then to the stovetop, sliding over the ceramic with his cloth. "You pulled me out." He begins to scrub again. "I owe you both and I couldn't -  _shit!"_

John doesn't see the specifics, but from the way Felix has thrown the rag and clutches at his hand he can make the conclusion himself. He turns on the tap and, without thinking, puts a hand on Felix's shoulder to direct him to the flow. "Here, cold water'll help."

Felix obliges him, but the look in his eyes is damn near  _murderous_ as he stares out the window. There's a frightening glint in his eye, the stone cold colour and dangerous flash. John's hand snaps back to his own side at the sight, embarrassment floods in thereafter.

"Hey," He says, coughing and leaning his back against the counter by the sink. "It's just eggs. We all burn breakfast every once in a while."

But Felix's lips are pressed together and shakes his head, staring out in the back garden with all its colourful leaves and dying shrubbery.

"Burns too," John amends, with a small laugh intended to cheer Felix, he adds, "Sometimes I get nasty ones on my fingers from my flat-" He stops abruptly, not sure if he should divulge his particular grooming habits, but Felix isn't listening anyhow. He's staring, angrily, out at everything his eyes meet.

But - wait - he doesn't look angry anymore. He looks entranced by the steady flow of water over the pink splotch on his hand, and he rubs his hand on the loose skin on the building blister before he speaks, slow and soft.

"I was just trying to sleep,"

"Sorry?"

"In my car. I woke up in there," He says slowly, reacting to each word as though it were cough syrup. John's always associated the taste with floor polish or battery acid. "And I was just so cold. I thought." He stops, takes a breath. "I thought I'd run the engine, just for a little while. Till I could feel my toes again. And I-" He's looking down at the countertop. At the stainless steel under his hands, the sponge drying up by the spigot. "I fucking fell asleep. And the next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital room. And now I can't even do what I want to."

The tone in Felix's voice is impossible to mishear. It's that feeling of complete and utter failure. As though, no matter how simple or basic your goals are, no matter what, you're going to fuck up one way or another and have nothing to show for your efforts.

He doesn't know if it'll help, but John coughs into his fist and removes his specs to clean them on his shirt. "You know, one time I dropped my little sister on her head."

Felix, for the first time, looks over at John. He's still aching, still angry, but this time there's curiosity there, and John considers it a sign to continue.

"I was eight and she was just a baby. And we were at my grandparents' house for the summer and I wanted to help and feed the baby. So I went into the nursery, and got her out of her cot. She started to squirm and throw a wobbly. I didn't have the strength to keep holding her so - I dropped her. On her head. Oh, Grandmother was so angry with me. And I felt like I could never do another thing right ever again." John stops, slides his specs back where they belong, sighs and ventures to look Felix in the eye. The anger's gone, the flint colour not as intense anymore. "So," He finishes, "To a much lesser degree - I get it."

Felix reaches for the handle on the spigot and John has an odd urge to reach out with the pretense of doing the same, just so they could meet in the middle, but he doesn't. Instead he keeps his hands firmly planted behind him on the counter. Felix takes a step away from the sink, and for a moment it looks like he's stepping closer.

"Is something burning in here?"

John tears his eyes from Felix just in time to see Michael standing in the entrance, an irritatingly impish look on his face.

It's only about now that John realises how close he's standing to Felix.

"Oh," He says, backing away slowly. " _Right._ I'm just...gonna go...pet Nana-over  _there_. Let me know when you're ready to head to work."

 

 

Felix raps his knuckles on the door of John's office. "Michael told me to let you know it's time to get going."

John frowns and taps the screen on his mobile. "It's only five."

"Yeah," Felix says, striding into the office and leaning against a bookshelf. "Remember, he wanted to leave early today? He's got a date for that Halloween party at the Rabbit Hole?"

"Right." John's eyes snap shut for a moment but the accounts are calling for him and there's so much left to be done and he can't possibly  _leave_ now. "Well, you go on ahead of me, Felix. I'll get Ray to drive me back later…" He clenches his fingers for a moment, half sore from typing all day and half from the sudden list of things still left to be done barraging his thoughts, both at home and at the office.  _One thing at a time, John._

"You sure?" Felix says, standing in the doorway.

John nods and turns back to his accounts and emails, sore fingers plucking away at one-hundred words per minute.

When Felix crosses the main waiting area to give this new update to Michael, Elsa's pulling her purse up on her shoulder. She isn't wearing a coat, despite the fact it's nearly snowing outside, and pokes her head into John's office to say goodbye and heads out the door with a courteous wave to Felix. That's his relationship with his colleague. Courteous, but they don't talk or interact unless they absolutely have to. It works for Felix, and Elsa doesn't see to mind either.

Felix swings the door open to the second office just as Michael's sliding his laptop and his tablet into their cases. He smiles pleasantly.

"Ready to go, then?"

"Yeah."

"John too? So soon?"

And Felix shakes his head. "He wants to stay behind and get more work done."

Michael doesn't look surprised, but he does roll his eyes. "Oh hell, no. I'll talk to him-"

He starts to leave but Felix jumps in front of the door. It's a bold move, but he's a good deal taller than Michael and manages to circumvent Michael's exit.

"Just let him do what he wants." Felix says. "I'm perfectly capable of passing out candy alone."

With a small groan, Michael crosses his arms at his chest. "Look, Felix, I know what you're doing but there are a few things you're gonna have to understand about my brother. He  _will_ work until somebody makes him stop. If we just let him stay, he could potentially stay until we come in for work tomorrow. This job - and particularly the way he does it - is gonna give him a heart attack sooner or later."

"Heart attack?" Felix's jaw drops. Every muscle in his body tightens, stiffens. "What's wrong with his heart?"

Michael blinks. "Well, nothing  _specifically._ I only meant that he'll work till he kills him-I mean, he'll run himself ragged." He grits his teeth. "Sorry. Struck some chords there, I see."

Felix shakes his head his head. "But about John. How do you know?"

"Pretty sure you've seen it by now; he's a workaholic and a perfectionist," Michael sucks in a breath between his teeth. "Look, one thing you've got to understand about my brother is that he's willing to bend over backwards to do what's expected of him and to be as perfect as possible about it. And he won't cut himself slack. So I'll play the villain from time to time. He couldn't get everything done he'd wanted to  _because_ I made him stop. And that works for us. So."

Felix doesn't move, his eyes are stuck in a corner, mulling over the information slowly, sifting through it as though words in greymatter was rocks in sand.

"You know what I'm talking about," Michael says. "He spends an hour getting ready in the morning. Runs every morning. He can't stand the thought of being anything less than what he thinks our parents want him to be. And the world, I suppose. And, honestly?" Michael's tone heightens, going from his attempt to persuade Felix to let him through to more of a lament of his concerns over his brother. "I'm surprised he hasn't tried to date a girl as a cover, before. He's broke off potential relationships more times than I can count because he's so afraid of what might happen if our family finds out he's gay. That's a lot of sacrifice-"

"It's self-preservation," Felix interjects, something icy in his voice but Michael doesn't notice.

"My point, though, is that he puts work and expectations from Mother and Father and Grandfather above everything else. He's been fed these messages all his life of who he has to be, before he even realised that he had a choice in the matter. And - I don't really blame our parents but - it's messed with his head. And now that he's got a chance to undo some of that - now that he's  _away -_ don't you think he should?"

 

 

"You know I still had a lot to do." John collapses on the couch, Nana bumbling up and into his lap afterwards.

Felix rolls his eyes and settles in beside him, scratching Nana behind the ears. "It'll be there in the morning," He reasons, picking up the remote. "Besides, it's Halloween. I don't want to pass out candy alone."

John has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from interjecting that in the morning there will be much  _more_ work to do on top of all the work he didn't get done. "What DVD did you put in?"

"Hitchcock triple feature. I think this disk is  _Psycho, Vertigo_ and  _The Birds."_

John should've been able to guess how busy Mifflin Street would be on Halloween. Ray the cabbie  _had_ said it was the richest street in town. It sees natural that children would flock there for the best sweets (and thank God Michael had the foresight to suggest they hand out full-sized chocolate bars), but John was surprised at the frequency of the doorbell. It seems as though it's every two seconds - every moment the film came to a good place, the doorbell would chime and John would have to pry Nana off his lap and hand out chocolate to kids dressed as pirates and Disney princesses.

It was nice to see the children's faces light up when they saw the enormous Mars or Snickers slide into their pail. But it made the Hitchcock triple feature nearly impossible.

Which, as it turns out, wasn't so much of a sin after all. Upon deciding that constantly pausing the mystery of Norman Bates took away a bit of the effect, they fell into a conversation. A conversation that carried on through the breaks of children holding their sacks and pails out for their chocolate and even afterwards. They lazed there, John's feet on the ottoman, Felix's up on the coffee table, telly off, with Nana's enormous furry body between them, leaning back against the couch and its throw pillows, talking.

And they sat like that all night, just talking.

 

* * *

 

 

A surly, very fed up Michael Darling shoved his homework across the table. Triangles were hard. He was supposed to be good at maths. He was taking accelerated maths. It was the kind of thing Year 7s worked on and he was only ten so it usually made him feel very intelligent and posh and all that. But, for once, Michael was completely lost. Those darn triangles.

He sighed brisky and looked over to the telly. Wendy was supposed to have gone to bed half an hour ago and had apparently knackered herself out to the point of snoring peacefully on the couch while her favourite programme was still running. She'd just turned six at the time, and that was apparently old enough for Mum and Father to overlook a traditional au pair for the evening in favour of John. Twelve is, apparently, a good age to start watching over one's siblings.

But John wasn't necessarily watching over either of them; neither carrying Wendy up bed nor helping Michael with his maths homework. Michael could've seen this coming when, before Mum and Father left he bumbled along into the house carting a pink-faced blond boy behind him. He introduced the boy as Morris Hall and said they were going to be working on a science project together.

Mum and Father agreed on the condition that they'd keep an eye on Wendy. And they had, up till the point Wendy fell asleep and then, Michael didn't see it, but a nudge in the arm from Morris and both he and John scraped their chairs from the dining table.

"Hey, Michael," John said, "We'll be just upstairs, okay? We're gonna-uh...have a look at the telescope."

With a puzzled look, Michael peeked up from his scribblings of isosceles and equilaterals and scalenes. "I thought you were working on biology?"

"Right." John squeaked - which really wasn't that uncommon for him in those days; his voice cracked next to constantly. "It's biology..in... _space._ O-or the lack thereof, really. But I-"

Michael squinted and Morris Hall rolled his eyes and tugged at John's elbow, muttering, " _C'mon"_ before they bounded up the stairs.

It was about twenty minutes after that and Michael had one more problem left on his sheet and he couldn't for the life of him figure it out. And John wasn't back downstairs yet. He'd help, Michael knew. John was good at triangles.

Michael blew a sharp breath up towards his nose. "Okay. Try again, Michael. ' _Prove t_ _he bisector of the vertex angle of an isosceles triangle is perpendicular to the base.'_ Well how am I supposed know that if I can't see what triangle we're talking about?"

He groaned, loudly enough to make Wendy shift from her slumber on the couch, and then hissed to quiet himself. There was no way he'd finish this on his own. And he promised he'd have all his homework done by the time she got home.

Nothing else left to do, Michael thought, snatching up his workbook full of those beastly triangles and waddling up the stairs up to John's room. Michael didn't bother knocking at the door, merely swinging it open, calling, "John, I have a maths quest-wha-?"

If Michael blinked, he would have missed it: the way John's hands went from holding the pink-faced blond boy close to  _shoving_ him away. The tangled disarray or limbs pushing away and flying across the room from a beanbag chair. The panic stayed, though, clear on John's face despite the curls in his face after he shoved his glasses back over his nose.

And Michael only tilted his head to the side. "Were you two kissing?"

" _No."_ John huffed out indignantly from a mouth that was a little too wet and a little too swollen.

Morris Hall took a few steps in from where John had throw him. "John, he saw us. It's fine."

And Michael had never seen his brother so red, so panicked, so distressed before in his life. It was entirely unprecedented when John flipped over to the boy he'd only just been embracing. "You need to go."

"John-"

"Now."

And the pink faced boy diffused to grey. Michael felt guiltier and guiltier as he watched the kid he didn't know scramble to pick up his coat and then turn to John with a last-ditch effort. "Can I phone you tomorrow?"

" _No."_ John stammered. "Go. Just...leave."

Morris Hall blinked. "John-"

" _Get out!"_

Michael waited, feeling awfully embarrassed as the pink-faced boy ran from the room and John collapsed back onto the beanbag chair. He couldn't figure out why his brother looked so upset but his brow was shaking his lips were trembling. Michael dropped his workbook on the floor (he figured it could wait) and clambered onto John's bed, kicking his feet off the edge.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked. "Don't cry."

"I'm not crying," John stammered. "There's no reason for me to cry. Crying is a response to vulnerability. I'm fine. Perfectly in control."

Michael didn't believe him but he shrugged. "Why did you yell at your friend?"

And, with that, John snapped his head over to his brother. "Michael, you have to promise  _never_ to tell  _anyone_ about this."

"Why?"  
"Promise me."

"We see people kissing on the telly all the time."

"Michael-"

"I know Father doesn't like seeing people kiss on telly so much but there's nothing wrong-"

" _Yes there is."_ John snapped, sniffling back a sob. "I  _can't_ let them know-" He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at his tight curls. "Not Mother and not Father and - good God - not Grandfather."

Michael tried his best to understand. He really did. "They'll love you just the same."

"You don't know that."

"Wendy and I sometimes steal biscuits from the kitchen and they all love us."

John cringed. "Father and Grandfather and Mother have had my life planned out before I was born. They know what uni they want me to go to. Michael - it's not usual for a twelve-year-old to already have a private tutor for his GCSEs. They want me to grow up and take over the bank and have a wife and a son and Father wants me to be him and Grandfather wants me to be him, and I'm already guaranteed to mess up and disappoint them without them knowing I'm a...I'm a...a  _poof."_

Michael stared as John buried his head in his hands in defeat. He'd always wanted to be more like John. But this was something new. Something new, and to Michael's surprise, something about John's life that wasn't enviable at all.

"Don't worry," He said finally. "I promise I won't tell."

 

**November**

 

 

Michael has been getting a lot of dates recently. And John's not jealous or anything, but he's got an odd feeling that he always schedules them at the right time so that John will be obliged to pack up and leave the office at a 'reasonable hour.'

And, technically, he could always finish his work at home, but Michael seems to have recruited Felix onto Team Don't Let John Do His Job. It's only  _two minutes_ after Michael leaves to pick Ruby up and John has  _only just_ opened up his email for work when Felix puts his hand on the dining table. Leaning onto it with his weight, almost piking back-

_Focus._

And Felix says, "Nana's starting to smell. She needs a bath."

"It's a bit cold and late to do it outside," John murmurs, watching his gmail spring to life. "But I imagine she'll fit into Michael's tub just fine. Go ahead."

Felix leans further onto the table and John is most definitely not making a point to not look at him. "John. She's the size of a small elephant."

"She's obedient. And newfies are water dogs. She won't give you any trouble." _Oh look, another email from the mayor. What could she possibly want now…._

And his laptop snaps shut. John finds himself staring at long fingers on a narrow hand. He doesn't have a choice but to look up. Felix's eyes are... _intense,_ is one way to put it. There's electricity pulsing in John's gut.

"Go upstairs," Felix says, voice almost a hiss. It's a command, dark enough to send shivers down John's spine. "Change out of that suit and get into something you can get dirty in."

_What…_

"-because we're giving the damn dog a bath."

_Oh. Right._

Nana doesn't need more than a sharp whistle to call her into the bathroom, tail wagging and eyes bright. Her face looks whiter than usual in the bright bathroom lights, and it's almost sad that she's getting so old, if not for the energy that reminds John of when they first got her as a pup.

He enters the bathroom with Nana on his heels and he knows he's turning red when Felix turns back from the tub, sitting on the lip of the ceramic, and looks at him with a crooked grin.

"What?" John asks, turning away as quickly as possible under the pretense of ushering Nana onto the tile. The scratch of her nails is louder than his pulse. He hopes.

"I'm not used to seeing you dressed like a normal person."

"Oh?" And, yeah, it's true that John wears suits six days a week, and usually on his day off he's at the very least wearing an Oxford and a waistcoat with his denims. But the t-shirt rarely sees the light of day and his pyjama bottoms never do. "Well, er…"

"Relax. It was only an observation." Felix smirks and stands up, lowering his nose to indicate Nana. "Shall we?"

They lift Nana into the tub after only two attempts of lifting her. She's heavy but between the two of them it didn't feel like much of anything at all.

Felix uses the hose to spray around Nana's legs while John busies himself combing through her thick wiry fur.

"Felix?"

"Mm?"

"Did Michael put you up to this?"

Felix continues to spray around Nana's legs, moving the nozzle occasionally to spray under the animal's chest. "Does it matter?"

"Not particularly. But you've never really seemed to care about Nana's grooming before."

"You stayed late every day this week. You work through lunch." Felix sighs. "Believe it or not, I do understand. But you need a little more variety in your life."

"Variety?" John places the brush down on the toilet and takes the nozzle in his own hands in order to spray down the rest of Nana.

"Your life's a little..repetitive." Felix shrugs, reaching for the shampoo bottle. "Rinse and repeat."

"My life or the shampoo?"

Felix's jaw drops a few inches, and then he closes his mouth at the same time the corners raise. "Both."

John starts at the brightness in his face. It's so different and how hasn't he noticed how perfect Felix's teeth are before or the way his thin face makes his grin seem wider? How hasn't John noticed how Felix's lips just seem to be the most perfect feature (on par with his eyes and his nose and the rest of his face)?

It's an accident when John clenches his finger, letting out a blast of water. The mortification comes later when he realises there's water dripping off Felix's nose and his hair got blasted back and soaked through and the collar of his shirt is  _plastered_ down on his skinny shoulders; John can see bone.

"Sorry," Is all he's able to muster. His stomach lurches when Felix stands, dropping the shampoo bottle inside the tub with a wet  _thud._ Nana's undisturbed, clining her head downwards to sniff at it. And Felix takes three strides till he's almost standing on John's toes. John can't move; they're exactly eye to eye.

Felix reaches towards him, and with one hand on the black frame, slides John's glasses off his nose. The world instantly blurs - but at least, John thinks, it has a reason. Unlike the pounding on his chest and skyrockets and hums in a frantic rhythm. Everything has an aura around it, light and blurring edges, but he can still see that smirk on Felix's face but he's rendered dumb and limp when Felix steps in closer, his forearm lying flat against John's chest, restraining him to the condensation on the bathroom wall.

He isn't sure what's going on, only stares blurrily at the face in front of him, wondering on that curious scar that isn't noticeable without his specs. There's something rustling under Felix's arm, the nozzle slips out of John's grip and

There's a rush of water blasting against his face. He twists away when he feels it dart up his nose, and it continues, relentlessly soaking his skin and his hair, his clothes. Felix's snickers grow into a laugh by the time John grabs the nozzle and wrestles it away from him, retaliating in kind.

It's a blind fight, John's head twisted back and flailing his arms out, trying to wrap his hand around the sprayer and twist it back onto Felix. A fruitless tug-of-war between them, and they're ruining Michael's bathroom, the blast of water covering everything around.

John isn't sure who dropped the nozzle, one of them must have thought the other held it. Ownership shifted too quickly to tell, but he hears the metal clang on the floor and next thing he knows, Felix has one of his wrists against the wall, the other caging him in, standing with his toes in between John's. And they're both soaked through, hair wild and slicked down with water, clothes clinging to their skin.

John hasn't realised it till now, but he's got a hand on the back of Felix's shoulder. And they'd be close enough to feel each other's breath if either of them were breathing. John isn't sure if his heart is beating anymore.

If he was just a little braver, he might have the cheek to kiss him. To pull him in by his wet shoulder and press his mouth against his lips and to know exactly what he tastes like, sopping wet against the wall in Michael's bathroom.

Nana breaks them from the situation with a tentative  _boof_ and shakes all the excess water from her coat, successfully shooting droplets all over the room, somehow making everything _wetter_. And now it smells like wet dog too.

And so John shakes his head, pushing away the idea. "We should probably finish up with Nana, then."

Felix steps back, looking dazed. But he nods and leans down to pick up the hose with the showerhead and the bottle of shampoo from inside the tub and John does his very best not to look as he does.

John's on his run when Felix walks into a kitchen to find a plate that hosts a single large cupcake, enormous pile of frosting capping it, lying on the kitchen island.

"What the hell is that?" He asks absently pouring himself a mug of coffee from the carafe.

Michael, munching on a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats, looks over his shoulder. "You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I think it's a cake. Could be wrong."

Felix shoots him a deadpan look, to which the Darling boy winks cheerfully at him.

"It's for your birthday." He explains. "We know it's early for that much sugar, but John thought it'd be best if you knew we remembered from the get-go."

"Remembered?" Felix quirks his head, opting to pour half a glug of soy milk into his mug. "I never told either of you."

"It's on your resume, mate. You're twenty-one today. That's kind of a big deal over here, yeah?"

Felix rolls his eyes. "If you've never had a drink before."

"You can buy it now."

"I've done that, too."

"Without a fake ID."

"Never been carded."

"Either way, Mr Gloomy, we were thinking we'd go out after work today. Take you to dinner to celebrate."

"I don't want either of you to feel obligated…" Felix pauses. He already owes them everything. And, moreover, he doesn't deserve extra kindnesses.

"Suit yourself," Michael nods congenially. "But you might want to consider it. It's Saturday night so you don't have to worry about being hungover for work tomorrow. Plus. We'd be obliged to go anywhere you'd like. Even the Rabbit Hole. Think about it.  _John_ in a  _dodgy bar_."

And, of course, that particular image was enough to persuade Felix to agree to the invitation and, after eight hours of work and fifteen minutes of coercing John away from the accounts and budgets before they slide into the Rabbit Hole.

The place is hubbing with people, but not overcrowded. There's a game rolling at two of the pool tables, but there are several stools unoccupied at the bar and several empty booths and tables. The room is full of the sound of indistinct conversation. Michael's gone to fetch their drinks, leaving John and Felix staring at their hands at a table.

"This is nice." John says after a few minutes have passed and he's afraid he'll start eavesdropping about the patron in the next booth over's rash.

"Really?" Felix blinks "Didn't think it'd be your scene."

"And what do you think my scene would be?"

Felix shrugs. "I think most rich people hang out at the tennis club don't they?"

"I've been there once." John says as means of a rather pointless conversation. But it's nice to sink into a comfortable back-and-forth with him, "Went with Dr Whale."

"And?"

"And I don't play tennis. Don't really have a reason to go." John shrugs. "But I do drink."

"I've lived with you since September. I haven't seen it."

"I had wine with dinner-"

"That doesn't count."

John's about to open his mouth and say something very witty and clever. He really is. But Michael interrupts him, coming forward with the drinks in hand. He's holding two bottles by the neck and highball glass filled to the brim.

He places the bottles down first, murmuring, "All right, Sangria for me, a hard cider for John, and," He places the highball glass in front of Felix and collapses on the booth opposite them. "Screwdriver for Felix."

Felix widens his eye at the height of the glass. "That's a lot."

Michael shrugs, "it's your birthday. Live a little."

And Felix only smirks back and raises his glass. "I intend to."

Both Darling brothers raise their bottles in suit, there's a small "Happy birthday," from each of them before they go and take their drinks.

The bright yellow Firefly Taxicab skids to a halt in front of their driveway. Michael is the first to exit, excitedly swaying from one leg to another, Ruby Lucas dragging him up the porch by the hand, sober enough to run and unlock the door without a hitch.

John and Felix aren't so lucky. Felix slumps in the backseat, head lolling on his shoulder, eyes looking numb and glassy while John pays Ray for the ride and bids him goodnight.

"Sho thing, cap," Ray says as John turns to Felix to help him out of the cab. Turning to look at the blond struggling to get his equilibrium back from standing, the cabbie says, "Make sure to put him on his side now, ya hear?"

"I'll take care of him," John says, trying to suppress the grunt that came along with lifting Felix.

"I don't need anybody t-to take ca _re_  of me," Felix mumbles over his shoulder.

"Of course not," John says, waving as Ray drives off and taking slow steps with one arm wrapped around Felix's waist. "I'm just gonna help you up the stairs, all right?"

Felix's pout is damn near accusatory, and although he scoffs, he concedes. "Okay."

And they make it, slowly, up to the porch and in through the living room. He drops Felix on the couch. The kid groans and tucks his knees into his chest, and holds them there.

"I'll be right back," John says softly. "I'm gonna get you some water, all right?"

Felix sticks his lower lip out and then flicks his eyes upwards. "Do we have any beer in the fridge?"

John opens his mouth for a beat, clanks his jaw from one side to the other, and then says, gently, "You've had enough."

" _Fiiine."_ Felix sighs through a glare, toppling over to rest his head on the arm of the couch.

John's back in about thirty seconds, but when he tugs on Felix's arm so that he can sip on his water, the kid  _collapses._ He gasps and his eyes are too wet and entire face strained. John almost lets go of his wrist; afraid he'll pull his arm right out of his socket; but if he falls he might  _shatter._

"Oh, God," John says, watching in despair as Felix stabilises himself on the couch, leaning one hand on the cushion underneath him. "Felix? Are you okay?"

Felix blinks, rolls his tongue around in his cheeks and probably tasting every shot he's downed in the last few hours. "I just-I haven' been this drunk in a...in a long, long time."

There isn't much he can do but hand the glass to him. "This'll help. Drink it slow."

"It's been a long time, Ja-hn."

"I know. Take a sip."

"You-you wanna kn _ow_ the las' time I got this drunk?" Felix slurs over his cup, taking a slow draught and then staring into the water between his knees. "It was righ' af'er the funeral." He nods for what feels like a dozen times, a small gasp hidden in his throat and tears threatening to spill forward. "P-Peter's funeral." He stops to gasp and a hand flies up over his mouth to cover the emotions. "An' I - I had nowhere to go. Nowhere at all. It was fuckin' Armageddon, y'know? An' our friends? Those people? They din't do it right. They din't know 'im the way I did. They..they don't remember Peter right." He stops, each of his own words another crack in his foundation, tears spilling out of his eyes like leaks in a dam. "So it's like they killed him all over again. You know?  _Y'know_? Ja-hn, y'know?"

John doesn't know what to say. Felix is always flint, ready to strike on iron and ignite. He's always ice and granite. And now? He's crumbling and ripping at the seams. How can one person hurt so much? But there's nothing to say except "I know," even though he doesn't.

But Felix nods. "And so I wasn' gonna go with them. I wen' to every bar that'd lemme in and drank until they cu' me off. An' it din't gimme answers. An' I went for a  _walk._ An' I blacked out. Righ' out." He takes another sip, a droplet of water falling down his chin fro where he missed. "The  _funny_ thing in this story, though," He spits out the word 'funny' as though it's the nastiest poison ever conjured. "Is that I woke up at a room in Granny's. I dunno who put me there." He finishes his last sip of water and drops the glass to the floor; it bounces off the carpet. "But no one -  _nobody_ has ever been that nice to me 'fore. Except Peter," And Felix reaches out, fists John's coat in both his hands and his voice drops. He chokes for half a beat before he's finally able to muster, "And except Ja-hn."

John bites on his tongue. Felix is really drunk and it doesn't mean anything but his face is burning and he doesn't quite know if his mouth wants to grin or gape. It feels like an eternity of deliberation before he mutters, "Michael's pretty nice to you, too."

"Not the same," Felix rests his forehead on John's shoulder. And perhaps it's a good thing he's so drunk for the way John immediately stiffens at the contact. "Naht the same at  _alll."\_

 

 

"What did I say last night?"

"Well," John fixes Nana's leash in his hand as they walk down the street. He'd rather not say; he'd never forgive himself if he ever put tears back on his face. It was hard enough watching it knowing that Felix didn't have full possession of his faculties.

But then again, sometimes you have to tell people things you don't want them to when you…

When you care about them.

And so, he says, "You told me about the last time you got so drunk. After the funeral?"

Now that Felix is sober, his reaction is more predictable. The flint is back, rocky and dark. John knows there's emotion there, but Felix is trying so hard to hide it and his frown clamps shut. John knows better than to press it.

But then, oddly enough, Felix continues the conversation.

"How much did I tell you about Peter?"

"Not much." John says, "Only that he's... _gone."_

Felix gnaws on the inside of his cheek and nods. "He was my... " He pauses. "I called him my boyfriend inside my head. We never used the name. But he's responsible for everything good that's ever happened to me up until his," Felix won't say the word but he continues. "He was...everything to me."

John knows it really oughtn't  _sting_ like this, but he can't help the sharp pain in his lung. But he swallows it down; it's unimportant right now. He'll focus on what's important and worry about his own reactions later. "What happened?"

Running one hand along Nana's back Felix shuts his eyes for a beat.

"If you don't want to -"

Felix coughs. "It's been three years. I can handle it."

From the way Felix had been behaving, John would have assumed it'd only happened recently. But, he supposes that's what happens when you're drunk.

"Well, Peter and I were messing around one day. We hadn't gotten very far, when he…" Felix presses his lips together and looks straight ahead of himself. "He started seizing. I took him to the hospital and, as it turns out, he had pretty serious a heart condition. Whale told him that he could live to see middle age - the caveat being that he'd have to slow down. Stop thinking he's immortal. Grow up."

Felix's voice starts crackling and so, to give him a reprieve, John draws the conclusion for him. "And I suppose he didn't?"

A slow shake to the head. "I'm not sure if he actually got worse, but it felt like it. Seemed like he always had a cigarette or a joint or he wanted to do something dangerous. He was always like that but…" Felix fades, continues stroking Nana's back as they wander up the footpaths on Mifflin Street. "It felt like…" Staring at his hands, Felix kept his eyes down. "Like he was doing it on purpose. Trying to go out in a blaze of glory or ignore the fact he was...fading fast. He was trying to be faster."

A slow suicide. John can't comprehend the ache that must feel like. Watching someone you love deteriorate in front of you…

"That's why I don't talk to our friends anymore," Felix draws out his words. They're spilling out, but if nothing else, he'll be damned before he doesn't control how they come out. "They said all that and I let it get into my head. They were traitors, far as I could see. But I was the only one who saw that it was the doctor's fault for not saving him. My fault for not-I don't know, but I should have done something. So I left them. Drank myself under a table. Went back to my parents'. And it just-got worse and worse. I decided to sleep in my car one night I couldn't go back. And you know the rest."

The look on Felix's face was one that made it seem like he'd never show another emotion again in his life. As though everything would always hurt too much and it was easier not to show it; better not to let people know you're vulnerable.

This state proves to be temporary within the next two weeks. Felix had to take a lunch and then some to leave the building and finally use his paycheque for its intended purpose. He returned with a small, controlled grin simmering on his face and keys dangling in his hands up by his ear.

He spent the rest of his shift with that same small, pleased grin and perhaps he didn't notice how it affected his demeanor, but he'd said 'Goodbye' to Elsa come closing time - something that - for the last month - has been accomplished solely with a wave.

And now John's standing with his hands buried in his coat pocket, crispy late-November cold and threatening to give him a cold. They're under a streetlight and Felix is holding his hands out to his car as though it were a personal achievement.

Michael circles the metal machine, whistles low and asks questions about the engine or the year it was made and Felix responds with inflection in his voice and they both speaking the same funny lingo that John can't begin to understand.

"And what kind of engine do you have?" Michael asks, crouching down to examine the polished grill on the front of the car.

"V6."

"Yeah? No kidding?" Michael whistles low, nodding as he continues walking round and round the vehicle. "Didn't come with it, yeah?"

"I started using it a while back," Felix shakes his head. "Smoother ride, more power."

Michael nods in admiration, runs a hand on the paint and it's only about now that John realises Felix is looking at him, waiting for a comment. Flushing red, he stammers, "I-I-I l like the colour."

Felix's eyes are sparkling under the grey as he presses his lips together and nods slowly to turn back to the vehicle. Michael looks up from where he's circling and examining the plates and back tyres. For half a beat, he looks at John and John can see the wheels rotating in his little brother's head. Any and all nonverbal warnings and pleas are for naught when Michael coughs and says, "Why don't you go for a drive, Felix? It's been awhile, hasn't it? John can go with you. I'll head home and feed Nana but you just - y'know - take your time enjoying that V6."

And he bolts, disappearing into his own car and driving off, leaving nothing but a cloud of condensed breath behind him. Felix doesn't seem to think anything of it, merely shrugging his shoulders and sliding into the driver's seat. John - what else can he do? - follows suit.

It's peculiar, John thinks, sliding into the passenger seat and seeing the entirety of the car from a different vantage point. The leather material that still smells new, the carpet around without so much as a stain or a stray chip lying on the floor, the boy in the driver's seat clicking his seatbelt as his hip and looking - converse from the last time - more alive than John's seen him.

Felix pulls out of the car park and smirks a little to himself. The ride feels a little like floating, like flying through the night sky.

And Felix drags his hands down once he gets the hang of it, long fingers sliding down the cylindrical wheel, dragging down at a slow, gravitational rate, and wrapping around lower before Felix leans back just a little, and sighs contentedly.

And John has to switch his head, look out the window, before his lungs figure out how to work again.

"Do you want to go anywhere?" He asks, "Or should I take the perimeter of town?"

"Whatever you like," John says, "Consider this a make-up celebration for your birthday."

Felix snorts and flashes his left turn signal. He takes it fast - the roads are slippery and John has a moment of panic that they'll spin, spin, spin out of control - but they stay in their lane. "It wasn't the worst birthday I've ever had."

And they drive, the heater blaring and making up for the early snow powdering the grass and slushing up the roads, through downtown. Most people are done with work for the day at this point, so the specialty shops are flipping the signs in their windows and families of anywhere between two to ten are shuffling into restaurants or other late-night entertainment venues.

And Felix looks like he's considering pulling up in front of Granny's, but he continues on, following Main Street out of the business district, away from the lower-to-middle class houses, and up to the woods.

They cross the first layer of trees; naked from the weather, ominous from the dark. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Felix frowns. "Huh?"

"I only mean, it's dark and the last time you were here-"

"I've told you twice already," Felix deadpans. "It was an accident."

 _Then why do you always look so upset when you say it?_ John thinks, but all he can bring himself to say is, "I know."

"Do you really think I'd try that? I'm the only person in the world who remembers. I can't let our friends be the only ones who look back and think of him. They won't even do it right."

John knows he shouldn't criticise a person's reason for staying alive, but he can't help but think how that seems like a really warped, hollow reason. And he winces at himself for thinking it; adding it to his list of Why John N Darling is the Worst Person.

"Besides," Felix says, ripping John away from his internal criticism with his slow rolling words. "I have a specific place I want to show you."

For a few minutes, that's the end of it. They follow the trail, bumpy under the carriage but controlled on the hard wintry ground.

But the forest around Storybrooke, at least the parts of it one can drive through, isn't as vast as it might seem, just like the town is bigger than it looks, and soon enough, Felix turns off the road and proceed to drive on the grass. It's a gardener's worst nightmare and, for a moment, he wonders who owns it.

And he throws that out the window the second Felix puts the car in park and twists the key to kill the engine. A wry, almost bitchy smirk graces his features and he tosses the keys up in the air. They land in John's lap.

"You were supposed to catch that," He says, picking up his coat and placing a hand on the door. "We're here."

John isn't sure where Felix is leading up, but he follows, almost dutifully. The air is colder than ever, the sky black as pitch but when he finally steps up to match where Felix is standing, he can see city lights dotted all around below, from the pale white lights of the businesses downtown, to the warm buttery lights spilling out from windows on the residential street. The moonlight that ripples off the ocean and the forest that wraps around Storybrooke on the other side. They can see the whole place, every last building and light and rumbling vehicle.

And right now it's all lit up and gorgeous. Even if John can feel his toes turning numb.

"I used to come here a lot," Felix says, running a hand through his hair. It's so prone to snarl that the action might've made that worse. "After I moved back in with my parents. I'd sit up here and look at this whole place and think about how disgusting it is that everyone's going on with their lives and how, for some people, it hasn't even been ruined yet. Didn't seem fair." He takes a slow breath, shaky and deep. "But after a year or two, I stopped thinking about that. It just became a bunch of pretty lights. So I stopped coming."

John wrinkles his brow, turns away from the light-speckled down before him. Felix's face is shrouded in shadow but the moonlight is bright enough to get the gist of his features, the severity of his frown.

"But I think I jumped the gun, a little." Felix pauses, tongue slipping out to wet his lips and he shuffles his hands, buried in his pockets. "...what if this is okay?"

"It is." John says before he can stop himself. "You know, just because you lost someone...I'm sure he'd want you to move on."

Felix looks at him, eyes steely and glinting in the dark. John panics, the sparks from those eyes hitting hot against his skin.

"And, by that, of course, I mean that you should be able to look at city lights at night and not feel guilty about it."

"You've never met him," Felix says pensively.

It comes like a tsunami wave. A thunderstorm rolling into John's head and he has to clasp a hand around his wrist and bite his tongue to keep from acting. From taking two steps to the right and flinging his arms around Felix's neck and kissing him. It seems inappropriate, given the circumstances, but if he could he would. He'd wrap a hand around Felix's waist to steady him and keep the other on the back of his neck until Felix relaxes from the suddenness. And then his hand would go into Felix's hair, it'd get more snarls but that wouldn't matter; they'd be on this tall hill in front of all the lights in Stroybrooke and under all the stars up above and John would know what those lips taste like and kiss it all better.

It's an absurd notion, a fantasy that'd be impossible - that wouldn't work out in reality like it does in his head. In his head, he knows that they'd hold each other in the cold air and shuffle back to Felix's car and drive quietly back home - somewhere along the way they'd hold hands over the centre consul. And, after he parked, Felix would kiss John again, promise him that they aren't done now, not by a long shot…

And John knows that if he tries now, he'd probably get a kick in the stomach.

If his life were a cheesy book or a low-budget film or if one of them were a pretty girl and the other fancied pretty girls, it would end differently. They would kiss up there on that hill overlooking Storybrooke without a repercussion, just that final release.

 

* * *

 

 

"Gimme a light," Peter mumbled, a cigarette between his teeth mumbling his usually perfect enunciation. He arced a brow at the surly expression smacked on the taller boy's face at the command when he had to reach for the Zippo himself. He waited till he sucked up a mouthful of smog and expelled it over to where he lay, splayed out on the duvet naked, flicking the flame on and off. With that smoky breath he made his inquiry. "What's with the look?"

Felix kept his eye on the flame. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. His finger slipped. The cylinder sparked instead. Dark. Light. "Peter, you're dying." He said, voice a pane of cracked glass ready to shatter in one more blow.

"No I'm not." Peter wafted more of the chemicals into his lungs. For the first time ever Felix wanted to tell him to stop. "My  _heart_ is."

Felix looked up from the flickering lighter to lock eyes with Peter. The red ember glowing on the end of his stick seemed like the brightest thing in the room - though they'd fucked with the lights on. And Peter only stuck the cigarette in front of Felix's nose. A shovy "Take it" in his voice and Felix obliged him, sucked up the smoke and willed it to calm his nerves.

And, thanks to the wonders of nicotine, it did.

Peter took the cigarette back as he said, "Look. They're gonna find a donor before I croak. It's not a big deal."

"Heart donors are hard enough to find and with your blood type-"

"What did I tell you about WebMD?" And Peter went on. "All I know for sure is that it could take years to get a donor. So I'm not about to sit around and twiddle my thumbs and grow old while I wait." He gave a petulant pout and then changed his tactic, rolling over on his side till he was lying flat on top of Felix, warm skin against warm skin. He blew his smoke in rings onto Felix's nose. And then he smirked. "I'm getting a new heart. So why don't we focus on wearing this one down while I have it, hm?"

"Peter-"

"Oh, come  _on."_ Peter laughed, feigning breathlessness. "Fe _lix._ I want to break things - to play games. And I want to come back after it all and mess around with you for  _hours_ ," He snickered drawing his lips down to Felix's, almost taking them in, but not enough. "And I'm getting that for the rest of my life and without a hiatus."

' _But if you keep this up the rest of your life might be a lot shorter than you think.'_

Felix huffed out his nose. "You heard Whale. You need to slow down-"

" _No,"_ Peter said indignantly. "I'm  _getting_ a donor. I believe it."

Felix sighed. There was no winning. Not when a contradiction meant a defiance. He could never do that to Peter. And especially not after the diagnosis.

And, besides, within a week after that, listening to the same mantra over and over -  _I'm getting a donor. They're gonna find a donor. -_ Felix was able to fool himself into believing that they already had one lined up.

 

 

**December**

 

 

"I swear, if I hear  _Jingle Bell Rock_ one more time-" Michael starts to growl, but he's cut off by Ruby, dropping the plates on their table with a little more volume than is really necessary.

"If you're gonna be such a Scrooge about it," She says red lips curled into a grin as she gestures to her tray. "I might as well call your peppermint  _everything_ back to the kitchen _"_

"Just because I like mint doesn't mean I want to listen to the same four songs every day," Michael nudges her right back, shooting a wink when she puts his cocoa and eggy bread on the table.

John catches Felix roll his eyes at the banter beside him as he holds his own cappuccino with both hands. The blond boy turns to John and mumbles just as Ruby saunters away. "You sure you don't wanna put money on it?"

No sooner has John shaken his head than Michael returns to attention, asking, "Money on what?"

John feels obliged to answer, though he cringes as he does, "Felix wants to make a wager on exactly when you and Ruby will replace the 'with benefits' suffix with a 'boy-slash-girl' prefix."

And, surprisingly, Michael chortles as he cuts his bread. "That's ironic."

"Ironic how?" Felix asks, though John thinks he knows where this is headed and can feel his blush get a head start on the conversation.

Michael meets the expectation: "Ruby and I have a similar wager over you two."

John proceeds to preoccupy himself with his knife and fork and Felix leans over towards him, sliding his specs up his nose from where they've fallen crooked and whispers, "John, you're blushing."

"Constantly," John grumbles under his breath and does his best to ignore the cocky expressions he knows both Michael and Felix are wearing.

"At least you're self-aware, brother."

John opens his mouth to give some kind of retort, say something clever, but it dies out when the bell above the door chimes and he catches Felix's expression change in his periphery. All joviality, all mischief snuffed out like a candle with a ribbon of smoke curling through the air. John flips his head back around to see nothing but a middle-aged, towheaded couple in shabby winter coats. But Felix has retreated, presses against the window in the booth they're sitting in.

"Do you know them?" Michael says, noticing the panic in the boy across the table.

"You could say that," Felix swallows the lump building in his throat.

It looks as though he's about to elaborate, but half a beat too late as the couple across the way seem to catch him staring and the wild eyed man crosses over. "Well look who's still kickin'." He says, voice high.

Felix's voice sounds numb, his body is stiff as he says, "Hi, Dad."

The woman stands just off the side of her husband, a few days worth of makeup crusting on her face, a hand of painted fingernails latched onto a hip. "Haven't seen you in a while, Felix. Thought you bolted after you got out of the hospital."

Felix stares down at his plate. He looks ten years old when he shakes his head.

"We figured you thought we'd put those assault charges against you." The woman goes on and Felix visibly  _winces._ "If we were gonna, we woulda served you the papers while you were in the hospital - but then again you didn't realise you can get carbon monoxide poisoning outdoors."

Felix's sigh is heavy and weighted down in his chest, but he won't speak. John's petrified to the spot, unable to believe what he's hearing is real, and it's Michael who speaks up. "Yeah, uh, excuse me, but who the hell are you?"

Felix's father turns to regard him, squints his eyes as though sizing the younger Darling up, before he says, "Didn't you hear him call me Dad?"

"Not exactly what I meant." Michael bites in return.

The man squints once more, evidently unable to read between the lines, and turns back to his son. "So this's what you've been up to? Shacking up with these two for the free rent?"

" _We're sitting right here."_

John doesn't have the strength to retaliate, only keeps his eyes glued to Felix, watching his foundation crack and tremble with every word, every assumptions.

"I have a job." Felix says, shockingly mousy. He looks younger than ten. He looks four.

"Don't wanna know what kind of jobs your type gets," The man begins at the same moment they're interrupted by a rather pink faced Widow Lucas.

"Can I help you?"

"Stopped in for lunch, that's all."

"Well you'll have to get your own table. You can't just stand around here." The elderly woman says confidently adding "Fire hazard" for a clarification. It sounded reasonable enough, although her tone couldn't melt butter.

Felix's parents oblige her, stepping off to their own booth, but the damage was done.

"I need to go," Felix whispers, so quietly that John thinks he's the only one who hears him. And he scoots over, out of the booth. It earns him a scorching glare from Widow Lucas - possibly because he was defying her  _Fire Hazard_ excuse a second after it was out of her mouth, but he does slide over and Felix bumbles out, lips pressed together and almost turning blue, not breathing as though the air in the diner would poison him if he dared breathe it for another moment.

"I'll get the cheque," Michael says. "You two go."

Felix doesn't take a moment for thanks or any other form of gratitude before he stomps off. John waves his thanks to his brother and follows on Felix's heels through the cold wintry air and the browning slush collecting on the walkways.

"Er, Felix?" John asks as they continue to stalk directly on the slush with Felix staring down but not really seeing anything and that anger's back - that anger John hasn't seen in months. "Do you want me to get us a cab or some-"

"No. I'd rather walk."

And John nods, stuffs his hands in his own pockets and he wants to bite his tongue. It isn't his place to say; not his place to pry. But it comes out before he can suck it back in. "What did they mean? Charge you for assault?"

"I suppose you have a right to know," Felix says slowly. "The day you found me back in September, I was sleeping in my car because I didn't have the choice to go back." He swallows. "I broke my father's nose. They were going to make it seem like I tried to kill him."

_I would've._

" _What?"_

"Yeah."

John blinks, heart out of control. "He certainly didn't act like it."

"I'm not sure he knew. He was drunk off his ass."

"What happened?"

Felix blows a long turret of air, from between his lips. "He got drunk. And he started to pick a fight with me. Using the best ammunition he knows. He started talking about Peter." Felix pauses, runs a hand through his hair. "And then, he went over the line and I snapped. I grabbed him by the collar, got at least two good punches in. I wouldn't've stopped if my mother hadn't intervened. And, after what he said - I won't regret it."

John waits. He knows the elaboration is coming, but the horrible feeling of rocks settling down underneath his gut tell him he doesn't really want to know.

"He said…" Felix shakes his head and winces and grits his teeth before spitting out the words, "He said ' _that faggot got what he deserved.'"_

"Christ."

And Felix looks at him, eyes solemn. "Can you blame me?"

Honestly, John can't. He's been on the receiving end of That Word, he's felt its bite personally. Knows what sort of awful things it can do. And he knows how much worse it can sting when it's directed at someone you love. The thought of that man - or anyone - turning it on Felix makes his blood boil, his stomach churn.

But John's lived with this kid for almost four months now. Stories of a sketchy past aside, there's nothing to indicate Felix would be prone to violence, to trying to hurt people. If anything else he seems to go through hell and back to make sure he  _doesn't._

 _I'm being absolutely ridiculous_ , John thinks.  _I know Felix._

John knows he knows Felix; and that's the bottom line. It's not his place to cast judgement, especially when there's more to the story than he can tell.

"You know," Felix says, ripping John from his thoughts. They're turning onto Mifflin Street. John's been lost in thought for a while; almost twenty minutes. "Most people would've asked about that."

"You don't seem like you want to talk about it."

Felix takes a moment to gnaw on his cheek, and he softens. His eyes are swarming with headlights and racing cars, but he's relaxing; John can tell from the easement in his shoulders. And his voice is scratchy, but almost a whisper. "No one's ever cared about me like that before."

"Except for Peter?" John says, remembering Felix's drunken ramble on his birthday. It's all a quip to hide the way he's already out of breath, to keep his knees stable.

But Felix -  _what? -_  is shaking his head. "Peter'd be telling me why I'm upset right now. He'd ask me if I wanted to know and then tell me anyway."

To John, that seems like an absolute shit thing to do. But he won't force his opinion on Felix. Especially not with a subject that he's so clearly still aching over.

"That's how he helped," Felix says, stepping through the fence to lead up to their house. "He'd piece me together."

The notion makes John's skin crawl, but there's pure nostalgia on Felix's face that's so endearing he'll shove the implications aside.

And now they're walking up the porch steps side by side and the steel and flint in Felix's eyes is sharp as ever and perhaps more alight and John's getting goose pimples just by looking at him.

And then Felix speaks once more, with one hand on the freezing golden doorknob. "But you don't seem to mind when I'm all over the place."

"Nobody should have to be put together all the time," John offers weakly.

He isn't sure what he's said but Felix squints and tilts his head. It's an enticing little action, welcoming, and he steps in closer. Hand transferred from the doorknob onto John's head. His fingers sift through John's fringe - the same hair he painstakingly straightens and parts every morning - and he twists it in his hand. John's frozen to the spot, but he's sure from the look on Felix's face that he's leaning into it. Like a dog or something. The embarrassing thought is eclipsed when Felix doesn't withdraw his hand, but rather drags it down, just like he did on the steering wheel that night they looked over Storybrooke. And now he's touching the side of John's face and he says, "Take your own advice."

And his other hand comes out and Felix drags him forward, pulling him by the left side of his lapel.

John's eyes snap shut on contact.

It's sensory overload. He can taste the froth from the cappuccino on the curve of Felix's lips. The cold air hits the back of John's hands, whiffling against his knuckles when his hands fly out to clutch at Felix's skinny little waist. His coat's thick enough John can't tell if he'd be able to feel Felix's ribs through his skin. He has a feeling he would - but he wants to know for sure. Every slighted breath blasts in his ears; he's aware of the every last length of oxygen, shared and new, if only because he hears it. And Felix smells like coffee beans and wintry air when the icy whips of air ruffle against them.

John goes to cap off Felix's lips, to step away and open the door. But Felix gives chase, catches John's lip between his teeth. There's pressure, just enough for a sharp pinch, a  _sting._ He doesn't intend to let it break through, but a short trilling note spills from John's mouth, at tip of a tongue darting, touch-and-go, when Felix steps away once more.

"That was…" He pauses. " _Unexpected."_

John can feel the red rush up to his cheeks, "What?"

"I didn't think you'd be the loud type."

"'m not."

Felix rolls his eyes, witty retort on the tip of his tongue when a pitchy  _whoop_ is heard from off in the distance. When John steps away from Felix to see where it came from, he can feel all colour drain from his face at the kids staring at them over a snowman in the vacant lot across the road.

He recognises one of them as Henry, the Mayor's kid, but he's got no idea who the other one is. And Henry's smiling when he turns to his friend and resumes patting down the snowman's thorax, "See, Paige? Told ya they were falling in love."

An anvil falls and shatters in John's gut when he breaks off. "We should go inside," He mutters, turning nonetheless to wave sheepishly to the kids, who are delayed in their response if only to continue to perfect their spheres.

He doesn't crane down to pat Nana when she greets them at the door; instead he finds the nearest stair and plops down ungracefully. He's sure he looks like a wobbly kneed newborn giraffe but that's beside the point.

Felix slides up by the wall, leans on the banister, and blinks down to John - who's moved his knuckles to press against his lips, his elbow on his thumping knee. "John? Did I do something wrong?"

The look in his eyes is almost fragile and John is having a hard time seeing beyond his own nose when he says, "We really should not have done that out there."

"I don't understand."

John groans. "That was the mayor's kid. He's gonna tell her, and I'm going to be taken in for public indecency and there's going to be this enormous scandal and the bank's gonna go under in Stroybrooke and we're never going to be able to expand, with the way news travels and-"

" _John."_ Felix says, tone so commanding that it instantly clamps Felix's jaw shut on the unsaid command. "While I don't put any of that beyond the mayor, you're being a little egocentric when it comes to the things she cares about."

" _Egocentric?"_

Felix sighs and maneuvers himself to take a seat on the step just below John's feet. "We weren't fucking out there. There's nothing that happened that she's gonna object to Henry seeing with anything more than rolling her eyes."

John presses his lips together, and he's sure he's pouting but it skitters off his face when Felix's hand slides up to his knee.

"I've lived here all my life. People kissing in the street is...disturbingly common. And there hasn't been a lawsuit yet. If you're worried about the mayor or the fact a couple of kids saw us, don't be."

Slipping his specs from his nows, John shrugs and sighs, wipes at the lenses on the hem of his shirt, he hasn't but the back yet when Felix's hand comes up again and he's no longer sitting on the step below him but crouched forward, feet on the ground storey and one hand on John's knee and the other on the wall. John's about to say something when the muffled clasp of lips on his takes everything over again.

It's 1:38AM when Felix pads out of his own room - funny how that works. He has his own room here - to find Ruby in Michael's dressing gown, hunched over the countertop with a glass of water.

And the look she gives him, a broad, open grin with her jaw twisted one way and then the other, " _Good morning."_

Understanding her inflection, Felix rolls his eyes and reaches into the fridge for nothing in particular. He ends up grabbing a bottle of orange juice. "Nothing happened."

"Michael and I walked in on something happening."

Felix pours himself a glass of the orange juice and shakes his head. "We made out for a little."

"And that's  _something."_

"I guess."

"Enough to let me win the bet," Ruby says cheerfully. "So thank you for that."

Felix frowns, taking a few gulps of the sweet liquid. It's got pulp and he cringes as the solid flecks float around in his mouth and add mass going down his throat. Who ever thinks it's a good idea to have pulp in their orange juice?

"Felix?" Ruby asks after he's taken the whole glass in one go. "What's wrong?"

Felix really doesn't want to talk about it. How it all feels like a betrayal. How he knows Peter wouldn't approve, wouldn't want him to find a life like this - in a rich house with an adult job and responsibilities and an affectionate man with smooth lips and a mild manner. But it's been three years. And Felix knows he's been in mourning, and a part of him realises he's been estranging himself and this was just a taste of what life could be like.

It's the fact that he's willing to consider it. The fact that it seems  _nice._ Waking up early and going to an office is, admittedly, boring, but it's something he's willing to stomach. Coming home with a man who irons his clothes and will probably stick to the same three positions when or  _if_ they go to bed…

It's the fact that Felix doesn't mind. That he's starting to like it.

It's a predictable life and lacking in adventures and lacking in violence and he knows, knows with every part of him, Peter wouldn't approve.

But it's been three years. Three years, and part of him never wants to let go - part of him isn't ready. Part of him is still upset that Peter was so addicted to their lifestyle, to the games and the danger - to smoking and rough sex and adrenaline - that it was the death of him and that adrenaline will always come with a sour aftertaste now.

It's the fact that this is all Felix has left. And what if he forgets?

He doesn't realise it, but he's been thinking aloud. Ruby shakes her head and says, "You're allowed to miss him. It doesn't matter how long it's been. It's a little cliche but a real first love doesn't exactly just disappear." She looks sadly down to the marble on the countertop, lost in a memory before she looks up again. "Yeah. You might still love Peter till you're older than Granny. And - knowing you - you probably will.. But, do you really wanna let that stop you? I mean, it's your decision." Ruby continues, putting her water down on the table and readjusting the dressing gown as though it'd shifted somehow (if it had, Felix has been too wrapped up in himself to notice). "But, I know you're happy with John. I can see it, Michael can see it, and I think even Elsa's getting the idea and you two never talk. So cut yourself some slack about it."

"It's just so…" Felix pauses, swallows pathetically. "Adult."

"You're allowed to change." Ruby insists, sliding her palm over the back of Felix's hand. She squeezes reassuringly. "You're not seventeen anymore. And - believe it or not - " Her eyes look so big, so  _understanding._ "That's okay."

And Felix takes the time to move his gaze from the snowy darkness outside the window over to Ruby once more. His gut telling him to contradict her, to flip the chairs over and run away. But he stays.

"Michael's not coming home tonight," Felix says absently checking his mobile from under on top of the array of boxes for Christmas decorations. From what Felix can tell all the bulbs match and the lights are actually white and match the ornaments. It's like a shop display. "He says the storm's too bad, so he's staying with Ruby and Granny."

"God help him," John says, snapping a bit of gingerbread between his teeth before offering the plate to Felix and shoving it away from Nana's eager snout. "Did he say if he wants us to wait for him to fix up the tree?"

"I'll check," Felix replies, thumbing his inquiry and nibbling on the biscuit. He slips the device into his pocket and continues to shift through the boxes. He clears the clean-cut, shimmering bulbs and ornaments from their layers in the boxes. And then, it's more what he was anticipating. There's paper ornaments with wallet-sized photographs of an angelic baby in a pink bow, a fat-faced toddler gnawing on the the foot of a stuffed bear. And a snowman with a curly headed boy with a gap where his front teeth should be and thick glasses.

"Oh, don't look at those-" John steps abruptly over at the same time Felix lifts that damn snowman ornament.

Felix quirks a grin, holding the construction paper and photograph up by his ear. "Wow," He says slowly. "You were kinda a nerd."

John splutters and Felix grins at the usual flush adding colour to his cheeks. "I- _was not."_

"Oh sure." Felix scoffs, but puts the shoebox full of homemade ornaments down in favour of searching through the box once more. " _Nerd."_

Putting the plate on the mantle, and out of Nana's reach, John sighs and allows the comment to slide through before he reaches into a second box and begins to untangle the fairy lights.

"John?" Felix asks a moment later.

"Hm?"

"Why do you have fake mistletoe in here?"

John frowns, looks over to Felix crouched by the box, holding up the plant in question in place of where the offending ornament was before.

"Er," John shrugs. "It's a traditional decoration. They must've put it in with the rest."

He doesn't realise where Felix is going with this till Felix is on his feet. He's stepping closer to John and flinging his arms around his waist, pressing him in closer. And now there's no air between them and John rests an arm around Felix's shoulder and the other comes into contact with the notches on his ribs.

"And where were you thinking of keeping it?"

_Be clever, be clever._

"Traditionally it goes over a door." John cringes at himself, and at the quizzical look on Felix's face, adds abruptly. "So maybe we can put it over mine."

"Oh?" Felix's lips twist up, his breath hitches and he moves in closer. And John can't help but sigh through a laugh when Felix comes closer, and tacks on with his lips bouncing off John's, "Where else could we put it?"

"What were you thinking?" John pecks at his lips, the one hand rotating from around Felix's neck down his spine.

And Felix doesn't respond with words, as he curls his fingers tightly around the plastic plant and removes his hand from John's waist, opting instead to drag the cloth and plastic down the front. It tugs on the buttons, pushing them down the front column of his shirt, slides down the cotton. Felix's mouth resting languid on John's till his hand comes to a stop - holding the mistletoe just above his zip.

_Oh._

"You're blushing again."

"Right." John bites his lip, doesn't know where to look and so he continues to stare at the sliver of air between them and the plastic plant.

Felix pulls him back into the moment, instigating a kiss that lingers on John's lips and John hardly knows what he'd doing until he's got his mouth on Felix's, his tongue carefully, slowly, ventures out to glide against Felix's lip; there but not invasive. They both taste like gingerbread and icing, and it's…

It's rather despicably festive.

And so John takes the plastic mistletoe from Felix's hand and tosses it over his shoulder. It probably will land somewhere in the hall, but now the boy's free hand is on John's hip and perhaps it's Felix who goes to break the kiss and perhaps it's John who whines in return and returns to his mouth with a series of short, springy pecks. But, in the end, who does what shouldn't really matter.

Or so John's only just finished articulating in his head before Felix tilts his head to the side and kisses the junction of John's jaw and neck and whispers, "So, can I?"

And John jolts. "You were...you were serious?"

Felix's response is a nod and a hand on the zip and button of John's trousers; he doesn't move, waits for the permission tentatively enough it looks like he's waiting to be denied.

"Yes! I mean. Well, yeah. Definitely. If you want." John says, glaring at the squeak in his tone before he coughs. "But, er, we should probably head upstairs."

Felix's lips stim, a half grin materialises and the wheels are shifting and turning in the kid's head and John can feel his face get red again.

"I only mean -" He gestures off to the side. "Nana's right here and all."

Felix's lips stim up. "Right. And you wanna go," He slows his voice, drags on the vowels, pressing his lips against John's every few words. "All the way upstairs." Deep, slow, a kiss that sucks up John's mouth and glides his tongue along a lip, "Just so I can suck on your dick?"

The noise that kettles off John's lips next can only be described as a  _kirup_ but he recovers just fine when he manages to stammer, "N-not just for that. I'll do you while we're up there. If you like."

Felix's lips quiver up into a broader grin against John's neck and says, plainly enough one might think he's talking about a luncheon order, "I think I'd like a more than your mouth this time."

And John thinks that just might be the hottest thing he's ever experienced before in his life. (A record previously held by Nick Carrow in uni when they'd decided to mess around with John's wrists tied to the headboard.) And he shakes and can't think of what to comment on -  _more than your mouth_ or  _this time -_ but it doesn't seem to be the sin he thinks it'll be. Felix doesn't mind riddling through the nonverbal. Or at least so it seems when the blond boy loosens his grip on John's zip and waist. He's walking backwards, away from the boxes and the Christmas tree and a whining Nana, and up the stairs, unlooping the buttons on John's Oxford as they go.

They leave the white shirt crumpled on the head of the stairs, Felix working the John's vest out of his belt. It feels perhaps two sizes too small and all he wants is to be free of it and feel the sting of cold winter air against his ribs.

But, approximately five slow kisses later and more shuffling in John's clothes, he extends his arms up to the sky so the vest can slide upwards, wad up in his hands as he makes a futile attempt to squirm them off his wrists.

Felix kicks the door to John's room open and all but flings him inside, somehow managing to seize the vest in his fist and throw it over his shoulder before sealing the door shut behind him at the same time the sound of Nana's nails came scraping up the stairs.

"What are you laughing about?" John's stimming in his fingers, tugs on the metal chain of a lamp on his bedside table to fill the room with warm buttery light. The storm rages on outside; the wind is audible upstairs, whiffling against the side of the house.

"I think your dog's trying to cockblock me," Felix says plainly, crossing the room. The distance is incomprehensibly depressing right now and situating his mouth on John's collarbone and John tries to say something, his brain short-circuiting from the direct line the wet muscle is drawing along his collarbone. Nothing comes out but some sort of noncommittal noise that John can't name. Doesn't matter: Felix reaches down and uses his thumb to coax the button on John's trousers through the hole on the other side. His other hand makes quick work of the zip and, with the sound of collapsing fabric, John's got his trousers around his knees.

It's almost funny how real that gesture can make this seem. And John can't wipe the stupid fucking grin off his face, and he's sure they can both feel his pulse when Felix sticks his fingers under elastic and  _pulls._

" _Damn_." Felix's voice is concise and scratchy, his eyes are growing, and John's petrified to the spot, turning eight different shades of red, and maybe one or two of purple when Felix sits back on his heels, heart pounding like a husk of rabbits in a tunnel; faster than all hell and with only one clear objective.

John stammers. "Don't stare at me like that."

It's a difficult request to oblige, but Felix manages to peer up at him, "And where do you want me to look?"

John seems to be at a loss for that one and Felix clicks his tongue on the roof his his mouth and starts to trace little patterns here and there on the clean canvas of John's body. Felix can't see a single sign of anything from a life on John's body. No scars, no markings.

He's so completely different than everything else Felix knows that, a few months ago, the thought would've seemed like treason. But now he's comfortable and snickering at the nerves in John's voice at the way his hands tentatively glide onto Felix's head when he rises up onto his knees. They're the same height standing, but Felix isn't used to that, and so it takes a moment of adjusting before he's comfortably at mouth level with John's trembling cock. Felix doesn't offer any words when he glides the foreskin back, watching the glisten underneath it with sensitive skin exposed and John's cock is more bold than the man himself, twitching at the stimulation. It's a contradiction and Felix thinks he likes that dichotomy.

"Felix, if you don't want to do this-" John begins, voice edging in and out of the in between of reasonable and babbling incoherence.

"I want to," Felix says, cutting him off around the same time he cradles John's cock in one hand, smearing a line of slow kisses along the shaft. It's just his lips right now, kissing the hardening, violently warming skin, the folded back foreskin gets attention, the smooth skimming of lips.

John's hands scramble in Felix's hair, splaying out to sift through the blond hair. He knows how easily it snarls but he can't help the motion, petting down the top and back of his head. It's almost reflexive. And he feels the fever in his cheeks and below his belly. The storm gets louder outside. The buttery glow from his bedside table casts shadows all around. Those shadows make it look like they're connected.

Felix's lips have only just wrapped around John's head, he's only just lunged forward to take him in, before John hisses out a pitchy " _Ah!"_ and his knees wobble despite Felix stabilizing him with one hand curled around his naked hips.

He's only just began to nod his head, to set up a rhythm when John suddenly cries out, "Wait! S-stop!"

Felix bolts back. Briefly frantic, his voice sounds so odd than its usual relaxed cadence. "What? What's wrong?"

"It's just…" John sighs. Embarrassment flooding his chest and he knows if he have more blood to spare it'd spread up to his face -  _again_ \- as well. He removes a hand from Felix's head and wrings through his own hair. It's damp from sweat at the roots. "I haven't-I haven't done this in a while. I'm gonna be a little-er- _early."_

"You don't have to warn me," Felix says, a snicker creeping into his voice. "I know how to swallow."

 _"Fuck"_ is the first thing that shoots out of John's mouth. No,  _that_ is the hottest thing John's ever encountered before in his life. The stunning nonchalance on his face, the plainness in the announcement; if John had any strength left in his knees he knows they'd go weak. But then he shakes his head to gain coherence. "No. It's not that."

Felix sinks back onto his heels, the confusion setting his brow and his - blissfully, sinfully - swollen lips.

"It's just-you. I haven't got the chance," John ventures a quick peek down to the floor. Felix's jeans have tented, and he has to blink four or five times after that to relocate his train of thought. "I-I don't want to...not until-Let me do you for a bit."

Felix starts for a beat. Eyes trailing from John's to his cock almost  _wistfully_ until he nods, lifts himself onto his feet with one final stipulation, "But you're first."

John's jaw drops at the condition. Coming first has always, to John, felt selfish. The idea of feeling the intensity, the relief, the crescendo of pleasure to soothe the ache while his partner was still left whimpering and bothered.

 _But, but but,_ he thinks.  _Felix wants that. Wouldn't it be worse to not indulge his request?_

But, that aside, the specifics seem a little confusing, at least to his addled brain. Get it up. Switch. Get the other off. Switch. Too many steps, too many steps altogether.

"Maybe," John offers, starting in on Felix's belt. "We can compromise?"

" _Compromise_?"

John can't help but laugh at the deadpan tone in Felix's voice. It'd been so intimidating in Room 311 of the hospital. And then he clarifies, "There are ways, you know, that we can both get off."

Felix clicks his tongue once more against the roof of his mouth but no sooner has he breathed the word, "Deal," into John's mouth than they're compressed together again. The heat from Felix's chest is insane, his whole body burns up - heartbeat, adrenaline,  _fever_. That twiggy cage and heart bleating and pounding. His prick  _digs_ into John's stomach and he won't groan at the suggestion, but instead grins through the gale of lips and tongues bouncing one another.

Felix stumbles when John tugs his denims and boxers down in one go, hopping away from the material. He's all limbs, gangly and awkward till he's shuffling out of the material. John's glad he's kept his specs on this whole time, despite the condensation from breath and heat. When it fades away, he can see the details. Felix's legs are long and thin and have a mismatched collage of scars. Some look like bruises that just never went away, some like tools or knives and someday John will ask where he got them, and someday his heart will swell with sadness when Felix tells him the stories. But for now they're rugged as all hell and prompt testosterone and pheremones to spark and simmer and pulse through all John's veins when his eyes waft up Felix's legs and find his cock is long and thin, just like the rest of him. It's all so, completely, thoroughly  _Felix_.

Leering really isn't an acceptable practice but John thinks it's what Felix is asking for when he shoves him down on the mattress. He waits for the buoyancy to fade and John's lying back, splay legged and propped on his elbows from the fall when Felix grabs his own shirt from the back of the collar and whips it away.

The material probably vanishes before it hits the floor. That isn't accurate, things don't just disappear, but John doesn't really care. The hem of Felix's shirt was like a curtain lifted, slowly, slowly, slowly, revealing a second expanse of those scars and old bruises and skin stretched over bones, visible but not straining against the framework.

And then, when Felix shifts to walk closer, John catches sight of the picture, the rough sketchmarks, etched into his skin. It's the silhouette of some sort of a black bird. A crow or a raven. Most likely a raven. Its wings are extended backwards, talons extended, ready for a fight or skirmish in the air. But its beak is shut tight - refusing to call out and make itself vulnerable.

John really has to stop making value judgements on the hottest things he's ever experienced. He'll be proven wrong every few moments with Felix, so it seems.

With a hungry turning under John's abdomen, he reaches out when Felix comes close enough. Lifts him up with strength he wasn't aware he had, and slams him back down on the bedspread. Felix hardly has time to get oriented before John's running his lips up and down the gritty sketch marks on Felix's ink.

Felix laughs, quiet and raises a hand to shift John's hair between his fingers. And, for once, the noise in response is more comfortable, confident, a small purr in the back of John's throat.

He continues to press his lips and tongue against the ridges in Felix's ribs, along the rough lines and he can feel the indentation of marks and scars and he can taste the saltiness of sweat building and beading along the skin. He gets bolder after a beat, traces all these things with only his tongue until he's covered the entire picture. And then it's a slow ascent to his face again, stopping to nip at the scars, to snag his teeth on a nipple on the way up.

Felix's stomach billows, he sucks up a breath and when John busies himself on his neck, it's Felix's turn to stammer. "I-I didn't know you had that in you."

John sucks in a breath against Felix's pulse point, edging on embarrassment. "Do you think I've never done this before?"

"Wasn't sure." Felix says, canting in his hips when John's hand slides down his stomach, rubbing over his tattoo before sliding, light as a feather, over the base of his cock. And he chuckles. "Should've shown you my ink sooner."

It's the last word that gets in edgewise before they're sucking up each other's breaths again, lips and teeth and John's tongue dodges at Felix's mouth but retreats back when he goes to return the favour. Felix is getting damn tired of how perfect John is at this. Perfect kisses, stringing him along over and over again with nothing but a prayer that they'll forego perfection soon and just get messy.

"Top drawer," John mumbles between kisses, shifting onto his back when Felix tosses himself over.

Felix nods, and reaches out, grabs John's glasses for him, and tosses it haphazardly onto the bedside table. Everything's a blurry mess of pronounced features. The lamp's buttery light gives everything a yellow glow. And Felix pulls out the black box and white tube, tosses them onto one of the pillows and returns to John. He'll drink this in, right now, while he can still think in words. The way John looks like a different person. There's sweat building and beading on his forehead, short hairs forming curls right along his scalp, the remaining pin-straight hair tousled and teased in multiple directions. Glasses off and no longer obstructing the damn near perfect symmetry in his face.

John's hand is still drawing circles on Felix's raven, although his other hand traces absent patterns on his erection, dampening themselves on the dribble of precome slathering over is fingers.

Oh, God. John isn't sure how much more he can take. The room's boiling and contradicting the whistle of the blizzard outside, and Felix's skin is slick and burning up and the only thing in the entire world that John can think about is flinging his knees over Felix's shoulders and bending in  _half_ for him.

And , to speed it along, he asks, "How do you like to do this?"

"I like to take it." Felix returns in a whisper. And John must have let his expression betray him. Felix's face falters, if only for a moment. Slowly, he adds in, "And so do you."

"Well, yeah." John swallows quickly. "But I  _can-_ I mean...we can switch up." A small gasp and he amends himself. "Of course that implies this is more than just a one time thing and we never talked about that-"

He's halted mid-sentence by Felix's tongue on his lips and a hand slapping on his thighs. He snickers, low and secretive, as though the blizzard wanted to overhear. "You do me round two."

John can't do much more than gasp in his surprise, thighs falling open at the slightest shepherding from Felix. And his heart is hammering and fast and the heat builds up under his stomach once more, he twitches and leaps ahead to full hardness again after the reprieve of stimulation.

Felix snickers and throws his hand to the base of John's cock, knuckles resting in the patch of curls, keeping a tight grip there to hold him off. "This position all right?"

John nods, frantically running his head up and down on the pillows, eyes fluttering shut when he hears the pop of the tube uncapping. The gel is cold at first and makes him hiss. Such a grave contradiction between the searing heat on the other side of his hips. Felix suckles a kiss from his lips as means of distraction till he can get a dabbing on his fingers and begins to toy around and warm the spread. It warms and John's breathing deep to relax himself and Felix knows protocol well enough to sink his index finger inside.

He's warm and snug against Felix's finger, wrapped all around. John flings his arms around Felix's shoulders, digs the pads of his fingertips into the slickened skin holding him close. He can feel the rough edges of a scar on his shoulder blades. A few more perfect, neat kisses pass till Felix gains the upper hand, scraping his tongue against John's. A low groan and a high warble almost an octave apart sounds and John cants his hips forward on Felix's finger, furthering the stretch.

" _More."_

It's the most demanding thing Felix has ever heard come out of John's voice, and he's only too happy to oblige him.

John tosses his head back, duvet crumbling underneath him, by the time Felix slips the second finger inside, pressing against the sides till they give. There's strain and there's a sting, but it fades as Felix withdraws his hand. He wipes it down on the sheets and struggles with the foil on the condom wrapper, hands still too slippery to rip it open. John sighs out a chuckle, "Here," he mutters, taking the square from Felix's hands, wishing he could see the minute ticks in his face and all the subtlety in his expression when John toils with the black square in his hand.

He hisses. "M'hands are all sweaty," He mumbles frustratedly. But, thankfully, the foil rips easily between John's teeth. His fingers are quick and nimble to roll the condom on - it almost glides to the base.

"Okay," John breathes, chest heaving and lying back again. His legs wrap around Felix's sides - one up by his shoulder, the other still rubbing against the ink. He waits, world blurry all around them, and Felix lines himself up.

John's bracing himself, relaxing everything he can, lets out a long soothing breath for one...two...three.

A hand wraps around his wrist. It's warm and residually sticky. Glides up to his palm in the next moment, and John doesn't bother to think when he splays his fingers.

And it's Felix who intertwines their hands. He squeezes together and pushes his way in. Slow and steady. John's breathy warble offsets his low grunt. They adjust together. Felix has one hand knotted in the blankets, John holds Felix close and licks pathetically at his mouth. But their hands stay together.

Felix rocks again, raising his hips up and defying gravity with the slow rate he brings them back down. John arcs and presses his lips to Felix's ear, goades him on with words that they forget the second they've passed between them.

But now that doesn't matter because they're moving together and John follows and retaliates every thrust and twitch in Felix's hips. They smell like musty Christmas decoration and pine trees and synthetic gel and latex and the thick layers of sweat glistening on their skin. Felix shoots his hips at different angles and John bites his lips to keep from getting too loud.

John's rocking on the mattress and starting to spasm and Felix drags his thrusts long and slow and keeps it that way. His face is getting too pink, he's losing his breath and drowning on the air. But Felix won't give this up, not yet. For all their differences, John and Felix fit.

One more thrust, Felix knows he found the place he was looking for. His fingers go white when John squeezes them together, toes curling and splaying. His face contorts. The clean-cut perfect John Darling disintegrates. " _Oh fuck-"_ Reverberates in the air and John's eyes snap shut. And for once he's undone and he's messy and dripping. Felix watches, keening a little himself as John pitches, conducting himself on Felix's cock to wring out the last of it - he's still whimpering when the fluid shoots - a leak in a dam finally breaking through. White splatters on John's chest, a telltale streak on his chin from the position.

He turns red when he comes back to earth and notices the fluid cooling there. Felix snickers and lowers himself, slowing his thrusts to lick it away. He looks up, meets John's eyes and the blown ecstasy of a man completely unraveled.

And he's gorgeous. Beautiful. Perfect.

There's hardly any colour in their eyes, but when would-be grey meets would-be brown, Felix drives his hips up one last time. John hears the moan, the yell, in his ears as though it were the only sound in the world. He can feel the power of Felix's orgasm through the latex as he's driven forward on the pillows.

And he slams against the headboard. Sees stars from the impact. They dot in and out of his vision; bright and clear and sharp in comparison to the rest of the world and buttery yellow haze.

He can hear the storm again over their own ragged breaths.

"Are you okay?"

There's nothing else to do, John laughs them away and just breaths out everything he's feeling. The pain in his skull, the phantom pleasure still lingering up and down his cock, the strain of Felix still lingering inside of him and the joy welling up in his heart when he realises that he isn't dreaming.

They roll back the duvet, damp from sweat and with an oily handprint from where Felix smeared the lube earlier. And it's so surreal resting under the sheets, bare skin on a warmed bed, talking like they've been doing this forever. Kissing every few minutes just because they can. The wind's still howling outside and it's something of a miracle they still have electricity, still have that yellow light from the bedside table. Though John wouldn't exactly be upset if it did go out from the storm. The heat would be shot, but they wouldn't be cold in the least.

Felix's phone goes off after - well it might be minutes or it might be hours. He stands to shuffle through the clothes strewn on the ground. John can't help but admire the way he's got enough confidence to just stand and cross the room naked. It probably shouldn't surprise him, considering what they'd just done, but John's always found himself skittish once the heat of the moment had cooled.

Felix finds his mobile in his trouser pockets, partway out of the denim on the floor. He picks it up and, upon reading the screen, announces, "It's Michael. He says it doesn't matter to him."

John blinks. "Sorry -  _what?"_

"Decorating the Christmas tree." Felix clarifies, tossing his mobile on the bedside table and returning to the sheets. "Remember?"

Honestly, John's having a hard time recalling anything before Felix put his mouth on him, but he'll take his word for it. "Do you think we ought to?"

"It can wait," Felix says. "There are about seven things I'd rather do right now."

"Hm?" John's trying not to blush, trying not to grin when he closes the gap between them, presses a lingering kiss to Felix's lips. "Seven? Thats very specific."

"Eight."

"Well," John replies, settling in closer and adjusting the sheets to cocoon both of them together. "I believe we have an agreement about round two. When you're ready."

Felix's reply is a dark grin, a spark in his eyes. He reaches for the tube lying idly on the pillow beside them and spreads his thighs without request. And there's no noise except for their excited, anticipated breaths and the harsh, loud flurries of snow and ice just outside the window.

It's Christmas morning, two weeks later, when Felix rolls over to see John hunched over his laptop. The glowing screen betrays a very familiar look on his face. A hard frown, brows tucked down under the frames of his specs, jaw set and abruptly switching from one side to the other. The red lights on the alarm clock reads  _4:37._

"John," Felix mumbles, propping himself up on his elbow and craning his neck to press his lips against the back of his shoulder. "Are you really working right now?"

"Hm?" John jolts from his place in bed, as though he hadn't realised that Felix had woken up before this point. "What's was that, now?"

Felix furrows his brow,and adjusts himself so he can look John in the eyes better. "I asked if you were working right now." He says, adding in a low, "On Christmas. At four in the morning."

"Er, no," John mumbles in return, snapping his laptop shut and gingerly placing it on the bedside table, his specs slide off next, "It was just an email."

"Because that isn't what you're always doing at work."

John shrugs and moves to lie down, he gives Felix a quick, absent peck on the lips before returning to the pillows, blanket tucked in under his chin. "You'll just have to trust me."

He tries to return to sleep, he does. It's a tempting possibility, with Felix just on his right breathing deep and even breaths, but for the life of him, he can't. His mind keeps on jolting back to that damn email and then spinning, spinning, spinning out of control.

And, maybe it's because he never got back to sleep, as much as he hopes his mood will improve throughout the day, it doesn't. Not from opening gifts from their parents overseas and from each other, not from having sweet breads and coffee for breakfast, or going out into Granny's for dinner. No matter how hard he tries, John's spinning all the while.

They're back to work on the 26th. John's still closed in on himself; whatever happened between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day leaving him grouchy. He won't talk to anyone, just goes for his runs with Nana and is less responsive than usual to Michael's attempts for conversation.

Felix is getting huffy too. Although this was a bit of a slower process. Still, Michael thinks it's a fair bet to assume they'd had some kind of fight. And, with that in mind, he puts himself out of it. They'll reconcile eventually. And if it gets so bad at the house, Michael figures he can just crash with Ruby and Granny. (Contrary to his brother's assumptions, Michael and Granny got on very well. Debatably, better than Michael got on with Ruby, although in a very different way.) So, it's just a matter of waiting out the storm.

And, frankly, Michael greatly prefers John arguing with his boyfriend over the nights sitting on the edge of John's bed while he pulled at his hair and made himself sick over feeling as though he had to tell yet another boy to bugger off.

Even if he is being a pissbaby about it.

But, when Michael opens his own laptop and signs into his professional accounts for the first time in three days, he figures it out.

So it wasn't a fight at all.

The fight does come, however, two days later. It's after a long work day where John's only been able to accomplish a copious amount of pacing and raking his hands through his hair, and it's starting to become more than just a mood and he knows he has to figure this out.

The specifics of his life aside, he only has three more days to figure this out.

And so he sits down in the den next to Felix on the couch. It's amazing how he can always content himself with the small things. There's no external source of entertainment, but he's just sitting on the couch, stroking a long line down Nana's back. He throws small handfuls of downy fur onto the carpet every few strokes.

And John really doesn't want to interrupt it. If it weren't for the time limit -  _three days. Seventy-two hours. -_ he probably wouldn't. But he sucks in a breath and utters the potentially worst possible phrase. "We need to talk about something."

Felix quirks his head, eyes narrow curiously and his frown thins, but he reclines away from Nana, and twists his attention to John. "What is it?"

John takes a deep breath, "Every year a family friend of ours has this big New Years party in New York. It's a big networking event, so my family always goes. It's - champagne, hors d'oeuvres. There's fireworks. It's sort of fun, actually. About as fun as networking can get."

"Okay?"

"Er," John takes a breath. Here's where it gets difficult. "And this year, one of their kids had a minor surgery. I think it was Ed but it might've been Lucy.-" He fades and coughs. "And you don't know them so that doesn't matter. Sorry. But, er. They cancelled it."

"I'm not seeing the point." Felix says tentatively, snapping his mouth shut when John shakes his head.

John takes a deep breath. He wonders, for a moment, if courage would come quicker if he weren't so much of a wreck. "You see, my parents already bought their aeroplane tickets for New Years. And, rather than exchange them, they thought they'd come to Storybrooke for a few days. Stay with us."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Felix tongues the inside of his cheek absently. He looks away. "Are you gonna tell them?"

"I," John sighs, feeling his ribs close in on him and squeeze his lungs and bleed his heart out. "I don't know."

"Do you need me to go?"

"What? No."

"I have enough to get a room at Granny's." Felix says, standing up. "I won't be freezing in my car."

"Don't be absurd-"

"What do you suggest then, John?" Felix's eyes are pure metal. Sharp, cold, hard. And John has a hard time swallowing through his dry throat.

John shakes his head and tries again, ripping his specs from his face to clean them. "You live here too."

"That's not remotely helpful."

And John stands, if nothing else than to keep their eyes level. He tries to keep his voice gentle and soft when he asks, "Why are you so upset all of a sudden?"

"Because I know you." Felix says, simply. He knows John. He knows the fact that John's ashamed of himself. He knows he's ashamed of not living up to the expectations laid out for him. And he knows that means that, by extension, he's ashamed of Felix. But that thought is too much to entertain and he's ignored it up to this point. After all, John's absolutely fine in the house. He's fine when it's just them and Michael and the dog. The spurts of confidence John gets in bed blurs the line further. But it always comes out when someone of stature enters the picture and John starts sweating in his palms and takes an inadvertent step away.

Felix knows that John's still wrestling with that part of himself he was always told to suppress and eliminate. The part of society subliminally telling him - screaming at him - that it's fine as long as nobody knows, that behind closed doors he can do whatever he likes but a peck on the lips, the word "babe" is  _obscene_ on John's tongue if the world can see.

Felix knows, he can, theoretically, empathise. But none of that matters. John is looking him in the eye and telling him in an infuriating roundabout way, that he's embarrassed. And Felix won't live like that. Not again. Not ever again.

It's like there's smoke filling up the room. Foul, murky, his head spins.

And so he finishes as simply as he can, "I know that if there were anyone you'd be willing to go public with..well, I'm not the  _type_."

John's jaw drops. "What? No! That's not it."

"Save it."

Wringing a hand through his fringe, John presses his lips together. "I'm just not ready. It's all on me, all right? There's a lot of pressure and expectations and coming out-"

"You've met my parents. The  _second_ I was out was the second I became 'faggot,' 'flamer,' everything in the fucking book." Felix's eyes flash. The flint in his gaze catches flame and this is, honestly, the most frightening he's ever looked. " _I get it."_

John stops. Heart pounding, breath slowing. Everything starts to ache.

"But you know what?" Felix spits, stepping closer. They're the same height but he  _feels_ taller. "I did it."

"That's not fair - it's not the same and you know it."

"How?"

"I have more to lose!" John yells before he canstop only takes a moment under the steely heat of Felix's glare to realise he said the wrong thing. "No. I-I didn't mean that."

Felix all but growls, arms knit tightly into his chest.

And John stammers. "Look, I only meant…you had a life apart from them to begin with - you had a job and a car and you hardly ever saw them. Felix. Every part of my life has  _orbited_ around my family and doing what they want of me. I can't-I can't let them down."

"Why is that so important to you?"

John sucks in a breath. "They're my  _family."_

"So?"

"If you're asking me to be entirely objective," John takes a few breaths when he notices his voice rising. He's been trying to be objective about this for years. It only ever brings him heartache, but he can't think of that. "If my parents don't accept me I could lose my entire career - which- _Christ,_ Felix-I've been primed for my entire life just so I could have a lofty position right out of uni and keep it in the family and actually deserve it. My house. My reputation. My inheritance-"

"Since when do you care about money?"

"Never! That's exactly the point," John turns around. He must've started pacing at some point; his hands are threaded in his hair. When did all that happen? "I've always  _had it._ I don't know what that kind of shock would do to me."

Felix stares at him a moment. Narrows his eyes.

"Look," John says, stepping closer to Felix and finding that their perceived heights have leveled out somewhere along the way. "I thought it'd get easier to tell them after I moved out. And then it was after uni. And then it was after I got my own place. And then after I moved to the States. I just." He presses his lips together. "I can't stand the thought of them looking at me like I'm a disappointment or there's something  _wrong."_

Felix frowns. "You get used to that after a while."

"We're starting to circle. We need to take a break and finish this when we're ready to have a reasonable discussion."

Felix spins around without a word, pivots on his heel and slams the door behind him. An engine flares in the driveway. John twists the rod by the blinds and they flatten out to slats just in time to see the Felix's license plates twist down the road.

With his head still buried in his hands, John hears the footsteps shifting from the tap of linoleum to the padding of carpet. Michael's voice sounds next. "In my defense, you two were yelling. I heard it upstairs."

John groans. "What do you want, Michael?"

"Do you want my two-cents?"

"Not particularly." John rolls his head to the side and rests his chin on his knuckles. "But I've got a feeling I'm gonna get it anyway."

Michael offers a heartless laugh and takes a seat beside his brother. "This feels oddly surreal for  _me_ to tell  _you,_ but,  _think about it._ Even if they take it badly, what can they do to you? They can't kick you out of the house anymore - we own this house together. And even if they do fire you for it, your resume is damn impressive. You had internships when you were fourteen. You're a COO at thirty. A dent to the reputation can't ruin those credentials. You'll find something else. And that's the worst-case scenario."

"Michael, go  _away_."

"All I'm saying," Michael says before obliging him, strolling back towards the door, "Is that  _does_ look, a little, like you're making excuses."

It's after dark when Felix comes home again. John's pressed up against the pillows on his headboard, scrolling down lists of accounts and his schedule for the rest of the year on a tablet. Three days. He's only got three days left.

A soft tapping sounds at the door and John snaps his head up to see Felix standing, gangly and awkward, his thin cheeks pink from the cold, hair still damp from the snow. And he crosses the room, sits at the foot of the bed right beside John's toes and John's only just sat the tablet down when Felix takes a deep breath and speaks.

"What's the plan?"

"Well," John sits up straighter against the headboard and he knows he's shaking, stomach in knots, and he bites his lip. "We'll pick them up from the aeroport. And then I suppose all six of us will go to dinner or something. And, as for the elephant in the room." John doesn't know why it's so hard to say this. Why his vocal chords want to clamp up. He's been avoiding any sort of verbal confirmation ever since he first realised for himself - at twelve years old with pink-faced Morris Hall. Maybe that's why it's so hard for him to actually make the admission, despite the fact it's just him and Felix alone right now. "I figure we can address it when I introduce you. If that's all right."

Felix's brows furrow and the rest of his face falls slack. He's spinning and blinking and all sorts of confused things at once. "I...didn't think you'd actually do that for me."

Both palms pressed against one another and held up to his mouth, John sighs, uses his hand to stabilise his head. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I'm hoping-I'd like you around for a long time. So…" He fades and drops his hands, replacing them with a small grin. "Besides, I'd wager they'd find out when they see us going in and out of the same bedroom, and Mum will never let me hear the end of it if I don't tell her I've got a...well, if I don't tell her before she finds out."

Felix nods, "Thank you."

And it's just as rare, as strange, as valued as that very first night. That night when John put him into the room down the hall and lingered at the door. He leans forward and cradles the back of Felix's snow-damp head in the cup of his hands and presses a soft kiss to his lips, feeling their curve, the bitter taste of whatever it was he'd had for supper, the stabilizing and warm hands clasping around him at the base of his spine, holding him close.

"It's getting late," John says pulling away. "We should probably go to bed."

One side of Felix's lips tick upwards. "Do you mean sleep or are we making up?"

"Whichever you like."

Felix grins and there's a lunge and a tackle and John laughs when he finds himself pinned down onto the pillows by his wrists. He leaves them be when Felix lets go to loosen and shinny a sheet out from under them just in order to pull it up over their heads.

They make it to the Bangor International Airport on the thirtieth. John's staring down at his knee, bouncing it to hide the anxiety, looking absolutely ridiculous with the mannerism in his suit. Felix stares down at his hands beside him, taking slow quiet breaths. Anybody would think Felix looks fine, till they stop to see the swarm in his eyes. And they wouldn't know, no one would, except for Felix locked up in the cell of his mind, how he's recounting every horrible name he's ever been called, every aversive reaction that's ever blown up in his face. Every time he's been backhanded or kicked or punched in the face for 'crimes' lesser than this. He takes a slow breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He sustains that exhale as long as he can, which is hard considering the damage he's done to his lungs. But his breaths have gotten longer over the years.

John can't hide his anxiety to only his eyes, however. He's still bouncing his legs and wringing his hands and remembering every little slip up he's ever done and that Look of Disappointment in his parents' faces and, in a knee-jerk reaction, he yearns to take it back. But he can't, and he won't. It isn't fair.

He squeezes his thumb in his palm, pulling it as though he wants to wrench it from its socket. Maybe he does. But he pulls and allows the tugging and the pressure to remind him why this is, objectively, the best course of action. He makes a bullet list in his head. All the reasons this is right, how, in spite of the way his fingers feel numb and he can't stop shaking his damn leg and it feels like he's in a pit fifteen metres underground slowly filling up with water and, he doesn't know, barracudas or something, he'll be better off for it.

He rattles off the list in question:

You are an adult and no longer living under your parents' roof.

Therefore, if they take this badly it will not affect every part of your life.

Even though it will.

This is not at all equitable to the time you dropped Wendy on her head, so stop trying to make it, you utter twat.

Mother will finally stop suggesting I go on dates with family friend's daughters.

Even if Mother and Father react badly, your life will - obviously - not be in danger.

And therefore it's probably best to bite the proverbial bullet.

You will stop being so anxious about this. You will account for all the variables and unknowns and just  _know._

If everything goes well, if Mother and Father react well, Felix will get to finally experience a good family, regardless of the fact it'd be through in-laws...boyfriend's par- _yours_.

Felix deserves better than someone who's going to hide behind unknowns when all other evidence suggests this is the best course of action.

He could probably go on and continue to add reasons upon reasons to the list, though the numbing in his hands and the fear doesn't go away.

But, (too soon, it's only been a few moments, hasn't it?) a swell of people, moving like a school of multicolored fish shoaling through the gate. John leaps to his feet, Felix hovers upwards on wobbly knees shortly after. Michael's crossed the lobby, having caught sight of a head of blonde curls and a familiar happy grin that's rather distinctly Darling.

"Wendy!" He laughs cheerfully, taking the head of blonde curls by the waist and spinning her in the air a few times. He drops her on the ground, laughing. "You're getting entirely too big for that."

The girl wrinkles her nose. "You said I'd never be too big when I came back from exchange."

"That was four years ago. And you really should get stuff like that in writing."

John hangs back, still standing over by the sofas beside Felix. He watches with a dry throat as, in the middle of the gate, Michael greets their mother with a warm hug and their father with a handshake that turns into a warm shoulder clasp.

John can't breathe.

"John? What's wrong? You look peaky." Wendy says, somehow appearing spontaneously on John's toes.

Michael chortles to diffuse the tension. "That's a nice way to greet someone."

Wendy frowns at Michael but then turns to her eldest brother in just enough time to see him shake his head and plaster on a skin-deep grin as he cranes down to embrace his little sister. She doesn't seem to buy it but, there's nothing else to say when he goes to greet their mother with the same expression, pretending but otherwise completely insincere, he kisses her on the cheek and gives their father a weak-wristed handshake before he's out of time. He can't stall anymore, save for a cough, a clearing of his airways.

Now or never.

"Er," He mumbles. "There's someone I'd like you all to meet."

When he turns around, John finds that Felix has almost receded back to the shadows. Just standing in front of the couch. A tick in the head and Felix takes a few staggering steps forward. It looks like his knees are locked the whole time. His eyes stay on the ground. John extends his hand, which, perhaps to everyone's surprise, Felix takes. Their fingers slowly thread together, slotting into the synapses between their knuckles.

Wendy gasps, enormous grin building on her face, bright eyes brighter than before. Mrs Darling has blinked perhaps forty times in the past two minutes; Mr Darling's expression is unreadable other than the  _surprise_ that somehow leaks from his lips to his moustache.

John takes a deep breath. "Everyone, this is Felix. He's my-" John stops himself. Winces. They've never discussed what to call each other before. And so, he coughs. "We're together."

And John prays that'll suffice; if he was any more nervous his heart would probably stop altogether.

Wendy's the first to step forward. Her eyes are wide and for a moment, there's a flicker of odd recognition there. "Sorry," She says, "But do I know you? You look awfully familiar. I was in Storybrooke on exchange about four years ago. Did we meet?"

"Briefly," Felix mutters, closed off to the conversation. It's something Wendy undoubtedly recognises but doesn't press.

Instead, she retracts, offering her hand instead. "Well, in that case, wonderful to see you again."

Felix is dazed enough, but he takes it and slides his nervous eyes over to John.

They stagger forward and John clears his throat. "Felix, this is m'mum, Mary. Mum, Felix."

And Mary Darling has wiped the surprise off her face, exchanging it for something akin to joy and John can literally feel a burden shift off his back, at least a little. She holds out her hand, which Felix takes after a quick nudging from John, and says with a grin, as though she's been a warm friend of his for years. "Felix! How wonderful to meet you."

Felix is numb but prickling in his fingers and toes and offers his reply. "You too."

John presses his lips together. Pushes everything down in his stomach. He's almost out of the woods, but he doesn't know anything other than the initial face-saving reaction. Perhaps this wasn't the best way to do it. He gestures with an open hand between Felix and his father "This is my father, George. And - Father, this is Felix."

"Good to meet you, son." George Darling, still so utterly unreadable from his decades of practice, extends a hand which Felix takes weakly. And then he turns his head. "John, I do wish you would've told you were bringing him before. We made dinner reservations."

" _George."_ Mary mutters in a no-nonsense voice accustomed to mothers. "We'll simply pay for another chair. Or, if they won't let us, we'll take our business elsewhere."

"Quite right, dear. Of course." George replies with a nod.

And John's starting to breathe again when Michael interjects again. "John, Felix, why don't you two pull up the car and I'll help gather luggage."

Still mixing through the wide range of emotion churning, tempestuous and relieving at the same time, John and Felix are all too happy to oblige. The moment they scamper from earshot, Michael turns back to his family and swipes the potential disaster remaining under the rug.

"Whatever you do," He says, palms out to indicate the severity. "Don't ask them how they met."

Dinner, for all the disasters that could've happened, went off without a hitch. Wendy and Michael mostly filled the air, talking about this or that or good-naturedly trying to one-up the other with stories of their lives since September. Which, for all intents and purposes, was all John could've asked for. The attention diverted, a chance to sort through his thoughts and worries. At least to save face, both of his parents were fine with it. Every last anxious tick, every time he'd shoved someone else away, all of it, and the only immediate backlash is  _"I do wish you would've told us before. We made dinner reservations."_

And of course, a nagging part in his brain that's got used to the past eighteen years of aching, hisses and spits in his ear, a crazed serpentine sibilant, _You told them in public. They've got to save face. It's who they are. Get 'em alone and you're a dead man._

But that doesn't seem much like them.

_But you still don't know._

But all evidence points-

_You sprung this on them without a warning, do you really think they won't have a word about it?_

Nevertheless, dinner went on. Both of John's parents and Wendy would throw a polite inquiry over to Felix, how's he liking his meal or if John ever takes him out to restaurants and such.

And, really, it's a breath of fresh air and John is letting himself let go of the tension around him, the secrecy and the defensive front he's put up for more than half his life. It'll be a process but he'll shut down that voice in his head.

Because, he's missed most of tonight. And maybe that would've calmed his mind better than scouring over things that could go wrong. Or at least would've given him some precedent for later that night. Wendy and Michael had long since gone off to play videogames and John was getting clean sheets down for his parents; Father was in the bathroom and it was the first time during this visit that John's been alone with his mother, and she says, simply, "I like him."

Embarrassingly, at first, John doesn't understand and he hands her the blankets with a small, "Huh?"

"Felix. I like him." Mary grins at her eldest son. "I know it's not a priority to have your mother's approval, but you're getting it anyway."

John's knees buckle and he knows he's probably turning eighty different colours from white to blue to red to purple. And, of course his mother can decode whatever sort of expression is on his face, she's his  _mother_ and she puts the blankets down almost the second she has them and John's suddenly holding onto his mummy's shoulders and failing to keep it together, all of twelve years old again.

"I wasn't aware Felix was living here," George Darling says the next morning over coffee, upon John's return from his run. "It's that serious, eh?"

It's the first time John's been alone with his father since they've come to visit and so he can't help the way his stomach drops at the address. He's never been able to get a good read on his father. "Er," He replies into his breakfast shake. "It's a bit complicated. But yeah. I suppose it is."

George nods and raises a spoon of oatmeal to his lips, carefully eating it so as not to get any unbecoming flecks of breakfast into his moustache. And then he says, "Well, in that case I expect to see him at the cottage this summer."

John blinks. "D-do you suppose Grandfather will-"

"No." He says plainly. "He'll have a few  _callous_ things to say about it. But if you tell him beforehand, I expect he'll get it out of his system well enough to realise this doesn't change anything about your personality or your work ethic. And, of course, that your personal life is yours and none of his business."

It isn't seemly to cry, and John rips his specs from his face before the lenses start to fog and give it away.

"And, furthermore, Felix will be part of this family however long you two are together. And the sort of family we are, he'll have to accept it eventually or otherwise live without his grandchildren."

It's as though John's just dove headfirst into a pool. The water's cold and refreshing and blasts away layer after layer of anxiety and fear that's built up for years. Twelve of confusion and eighteen more of crippling fear. Gone, changed, just like that on this last day of the year.

George Darling, seeing the way his son scratches at his eyes has enough tact to step away from the table under the pretense of refilling his mug. With his back to John, though, he speaks once more. "I do hope, John, that I've never said anything to give you the impression that your mother's and my -  _my_  - love for you would ever be conditional."

"Th-thank you, sir." John blurts, quickly on one breath. One more and he's going to be crying from the relief. The pool churns around him and he makes the briefest of eye contact with his father, and it hardly matters that he can't see through the haze of tears and the lack of lenses, because it's warm enough that John can feel it.

"Of course," George coughs, voice straight back to reasonable and authoritative when he returns to the kitchen table. "You'll want to be wary of how you publicise. Some might say it's unprofessional."

John starts. Confused and he can feel a layer slick back on against his skin. The water's heavy.

And his father finishes, "Granted, it's better than if you were dating your own secretary, but still. Inter-office relationships are the stuff scandals are made of. Be careful with that."

That layer strips away again and John's left sitting at the kitchen table, a glass in one hand and staring through a wall of tears that he cannot allow himself to let fall. But it's so hard and, as it turns out, his father's only objection is Felix's employment as Michael's secretary. And it's so surreal and better than anything John might've dared to think up in his wildest dreams.

You really can't call it much of a party, but it's nighttime and the Darlings have a bottle of champagne resting on ice, preparing for the stroke of midnight and they're playing charades and poker and Felix wouldn't imagine he'd ever see all three of the Darling siblings, all dressed up like they were in some sort of Reservation Only exclusive restaurant, failing the easy levels on Rock Band.

And Felix himself, sitting back, watching as the three siblings bicker over what song to attempt to play next. George Darling is playing solitaire on the end table, offering up an occasional look of disapproval at the lyrics being sung to the screen by his children. Mary Darling sits on the armchair to his left, scrubbing her nails behind Nana's ears and after a few minutes she looks towards him cheerfully.

"Is this a bit different than how you usually celebrate New Years?"

Felix pauses. "I don't, usually."

"Oh," She says and Felix wonders where John got his propensity for blushing from; as it certainly isn't from her. "Terribly sorry. At least we won't be ruining your expectations then, eh?"

"I suppose not."

"You know, Felix," She, absently runs a hand up and down Nana's spine. "I haven't seen John this happy in a long time. So - thank you."

Felix thinks John's looking fairly frustrated at the moment, brows furrowed as he tries to time his movements in accordance with the instruments in front of him. But the underlying sentiment is kind. Almost too kind. It simply doesn't match the word 'Mother' as per Felix's understanding.

And Mary continues: "You know, it can be hard to watch your son work so hard and never stop to enjoy things in life. I think you're good for him."

"You just met me."

"I can tell."

Felix isn't sure what to think, but thankfully the conversation diverts when George stands up, interrupting his children in front of the screen.

"Wendy Moria Angela Darling, you're not singing  _that."_

 _"_ Father, I'm  _twenty-two years old_." Wendy huffs, pulling the microphone from her mouth, and Michael pauses the game, biting his lip to stifle his laugh. "And it's one of the most popular karaoke songs."

"It's too suggestive for a young lady." George splutters and - oh yes, that's where John gets his blushing from.

Wendy puts her hands on her hips. "John's living with his boyfriend - and  _that's_ not too suggestive?"

"John's thirty and pays property tax."

"Oh George dear," Mary says, shaking her head, evidently empathising with both parties. "It's a  _game._ Let them play."

"Maybe we could play charades or something?" Michael intervened, playing mediator alongside his mother. "We can call it a coup de grace for John."

"Hey!"

"We're  _annihilating_ you."

And the game lasts about an hour, and Felix isn't sure how to process it. For all their proper airs and slightly stuff disposition, everyone's sitting around and laughing together. Felix has never seen a family interact like this. He thought it only ever happened on TV.

It's so surreal that he he can't help but wonder, towards the end of it, while they're all gathered around the TV, watching the performances and waiting for the glass ball to drop in Times Square, what Peter would say. He'd scoff and roll his eyes and talk about how boring they are and how it's expected and generic and useless. But, the clock strikes twelve. Its a brand new year. There's an explosion as Michael pops the champagne; Nana barks in retaliation but other than that it's all laughs and grins. And Felix has his hands on either side of John's hips and they're kissing in front of John's family with no shame and no secrets and no danger.

And, the thing that's most shocking is - yes, it's generic and cliche and expected. But Felix doesn't find it boring; not at all.

 

 

** January **

 

 

Their little party disintegrates shortly after midnight. George and Mary shuffle off to bed once they finish their champagne and Michael's run off to phone Ruby. Wendy went off to catch a video chat with her friends and see how they're celebrating New Years. Which, of course, leaves John and Felix.

John's contentedly rustling a toothbrush between his jaws and is only about halfway through when Felix joins him at the sink. His pyjamas are all wrinkly and his hair's snarled and, if not for the extreme air of alertness around him, John thinks it might look like he only just woke up.

And it's a ridiculously gorgeous thing, the fact that he's only known him since September, and despite everything leading up to this, they're standing here, in the bathroom attached to  _their_ bedroom _,_ and he doesn't have anything to hide anymore - and that liberation means more than John could've ever imagined. The burden's gone and with its absence the whole world is brighter. And it's silly to think; realistically nothing changed - and thank God for that, really - and he'll be back to accounts and all his smaller worries will pile up again and seem overwhelming. That's how life works. But for now, he's here, sharing a sink with Felix.

And Felix is disheveled and it's natural for him to stand there and John's never been in love before but -

Huh. How about that? John's in love.

"So," Felix says after taking a moment to wash the toothpaste down the drain. "What now?"

"Well, I suppose we could go to sleep. Wake up early. Get started on resolutions and all that. Start the year off on the right foot." John tosses his handful of dental floss into the bin and wraps his arms around Felix's waist from behind, looking at him through the mirror. "Or."

Felix's lips split up into a grin. There's a path of toothpaste drying on his lip but it's still stunning as always. "Or?" He echoes, smirk toying at his lips setting his hopes on a predetermined course of conversation. .

"It's late," John says softly. "Perhaps it'd be most festive - or maybe more appropriate, to set the tone for the rest of the year."

"And this tone," Felix replies, wrapping his fingers around John's wrist to shepherd his hand to rest on the just of his hip bone, just under elastic. "What were you thinking?"

John grins. It's easier not to turn red with a month's worth of practice but something still sets off butterflies, fluttering and tickling the inside walls of his stomach. He slides his lips over to Felix's neck, one soft kiss here, another one there. One on a straining tendon, one barely making contact with the shell of his ear.

"I think," He says slowly, taking time to finish his kisses before making eye contact with Felix through the mirror. "I'd like to make love to you."

Felix snorts, twisted grin wry on his face.

John quirks his head and can't help the fact he sounds exasperated. " _What?"_

"Nothing," Felix says, rolling over to face John so they're standing chest-to-chest. John's hand draws slow lines on his hip. "Just the wording-"

"Or." John says, voice a few pitches lower than normal. He cranes his head over and allows a burst of confidence to step forth and he runs his lips up Felix's thin jaw before whispering, dark and low, "I can fuck you, if you prefer."

It's such a strange thing to hear out of John's mouth that, despite everything, Felix can't keep from snickering. To the confused look up on John's face, and perhaps edging on hurt, Felix presses the knee-jerk of a reaction to the side and only tucks his head to recapture John's mouth, both fists clawing at John's shirt, taking it and rumpling the fabric till it looked just as wrinkled as his own clothes. Not that it matters. By the time they cross the threshold into their room it's on the floor.

 

 

**Two Years Later**

 

 

The second Felix closes his eyes on the pillow next to John, he's opening them again. Not to their warm bedroom and soft sheets, but to the leather and metal interior of his old car. And the world is blurry and dark and the mist and low-lying clouds in the forest are as enticing as a lullaby. His keys are running in the ignition, the heat on full blast. Felix can't feel any of it. But he figures that's usual for a dream.

"Felix," A smooth, dark voice says and Felix's stomach jumps. "It's been a while."

He can't take the anticipation and spins around to see him, reclining in the passenger's seat. His ankles are crossed up on the dash, he's balancing a glowing cigarette between his knuckles and sends Felix a sharp grin, and he's, wholly, more gorgeous than Felix remembers.

"Peter."

The dead boy grins and winks at him, twiddling the lit cigarette between fingers that seem to double and dot in front of Felix's vision. "Felix," He says. "I was beginning to think you forgot about me."

"Never."

Satisfied with the answer, Peter smirks and changes the subject. "Remember all the times we messed around in this car? Fucking in the backseat - in the trunk that time we filled it with blankets and pillows? The time I blew you while you were driving?"

Felix's heart patters, a small strain in these memories, but just as soon as he smiles fondly, it straightens out. "What are you doing here, Peter?"

" _That,"_ Peter says. "Is the question, isn't it? But do you know yourself well enough to guess?"

He watches as Peter continues to smoke, the cigarette providing a murky air, a lightheadedness to the metal cage. It feels like he's floating. The forest isn't normal outside the window, it's more of a jungle. Or maybe they're underwater.

Resigned, not sure what to say, Felix relaxes his head on the leather seat and takes in the beauty of this boy. Without thinking, he mumbles out a slow, "I miss you."

"Of course you do," Peter says with hooded eyes and a satisfied purr. "I'm the love of your life. John is only ever gonna be a replacement."

Felix starts; the smoke seems to double through the room. Peter's hand, holding the glowing cigarette has seven fingers. "What?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Peter asks. "You're projecting. You latched onto him because he was the only other person to treat you nicely. But - do you love him?" Peter scoffs. "Hardly."

"Stop."

"Why? Didn't you want to know?" Peter draws a brow low and sucks another stream of air into his lungs. "Look at you," He wrinkles his nose. "All grown up. Your hair's neat. You wear khakis and dress trousers to work. If it weren't for that scar on your face, I wouldn't recognise you."

Felix gulps. He can feel his pulse skyrocket, feel himself lying in bed with the sheets getting warm underneath his body, but he's locked in here. "Don't say that."

"What happened?" Peter goads. "We were getting on so perfectly. Had the world at our fingers. Gonna be young forever. And - what - I leave for a little while and you're  _settling?_ Living in a big house with a man with a degree and a dog. Since when are you so fucking domestic?"

"You  _'left for a little while?_ '" Felix blinks. He can feel his mouth twitching but he can't believe he'd ever sneer at Peter and so he's certain it looks like nothing. "You died. Five years ago. You're never coming back."

"But who's going to remember me now?"

Felix sucks in a breath. It's foul and toxic and slides down his throat like a demon he once called friend. "I  _do."_

"Doesn't count when you feel guilty about it," Peter returns, leaning his forearms on the centre consul between them. "Guilty that every couple days you still think about me. About what I'd say if I could see you shacked up with John. About where you'd be now if that stupid doctor found a transplant in time. Or," Peter raises a knowing brow. "If you could've slowed me down enough to save me."

Felix looks down, biting back the words that he doesn't want to yell. He wants all of this to mean something. Keep control. Otherwise he'll be wrenched away too early. If he gets too mad he'll wake up. Wrenched away again.

And Peter says what's probably the most precious thing Felix has ever heard. "You couldn't've, by the way. I knew my odds were bad. But I was so convinced I'd be the exception. I didn't let you get a word in edgewise."

Felix lets those words sink in. He's waited five years to hear those words in that voice and, though it's all in his head - though he knows it's a dream, it's the best consolation for the wound

But Peter won't give him long to appreciate the sentiment. "But that's not the only thing you're feeling guilty about."

"Oh?"

"Of course not." He grins. "You're feeling guilty about  _moving on._ Guilty about that ring on your finger."

Felix looks down in spite of himself in just enough time to see his left hand disappear in a puff of smoke. Peter's examining the white gold band in his seven fingered hand. He squints at the line of diamonds inlaid there. "This is probably more expensive than your car."

"Peter-"

"Of course, that's not the issue. You don't care about the ring. You care about the  _engagement."_ Peter says, tossing his words like he always did. "Because the second you say 'I do,' you're really saying that I'm just a footnote. A bit character in all those books you liked to read. That one from way back- which one was it?"

" _Catcher in the Rye?"_

"Yeah. That'd make me [James Castle](http://www.shmoop.com/catcher-in-the-rye/james-castle.html) wouldn't it?"

Felix exhales, surprised to find that simple breath add smoke to the inside of the vehicle. "No. He had a page at most. You said it yourself." Felix knows that if this weren't a dream he'd never be able to say it. He'd be glued to the spot. But, right now, stuck in a dream in a car planning to drown him with smoke, he can. "You're the love of my life."

"Then why are you marrying John?"

Because Peter was always passion and bad decisions and youth and fun. Peter was always the person who'd wring him out and let him lie there blissed out and too exhausted to tell that his games never stopped. That it was constant and repeating and a new adventure following the last, ad infinitum.

And that's fine for when you're seventeen. That's fine for when you're lost and numb by default and clinging onto the person who makes you feel. The person who you owe everything to and the first person who you fell in love with. The only person who made you fall for him like you were constantly falling and flipping it around so that falling turned into flying.

But Peter never teaches you how to stop - flying or falling or whatever it is you're doing - and then he leaves and you crash.

But John caught him.

And John's substance and sharing carafes of coffee and sleeping in on Sundays. John's the person who murmurs "All right, then?" and "Was I okay?" whenever they're tangled together and reclaiming their breaths and - for a moment - everything  _does_ stop. He's the person who stays late at the office and walks the dog and has a budget for the month, though he doesn't really need one. The person who's content starting and stopping and often lets his obligations get in the way but will bend over backwards for a good life. For all the boring bits, John's the person who you fall in love with without realising, you just wake up one day and you're already  _there,_ with his arms around you, breaking that fall.

"I see." Peter catches the internal monologue and relaxes back into the seat, puffing on his cigarette. And then he disappears. And it feels like someone ripped out Felix's heart from his chest. Just like last time; gone without a goodbye. But then he appears again. Straddling Felix's lap, cigarette gone but his mouth blowing smoke into his face nonetheless. "And, do you want to know why you're upset?"

Felix pauses. Was he upset? Yes. He supposes he is. He knows it's all in his head, but he's hanging off Peter's words, gripping onto the back of his shirt with hands that have, somehow, rematerialised.

"Because you know that when you wake up, this might be the end of it. You might never come back here in your dreams. Maybe you'll forget the sound of my voice, the feel of my lips. Maybe you'll forget me altogether."

"Never."

"Well, there's one last thing to attend to," Peter says, ignoring him. And then, without a warning, he takes the ring in his seven-fingered palm and throws it into his mouth. It clanks loudly against his teeth when he raises a brow. "Well? Take it back now."

And Felix, no matter how fucked up or how hollow the meaning is, obliges him. He takes Peter by either side of the face, his hair soft and coifed into his hands just like it used to be, and brings his mouth to Peter's. It's a rough operation, Peter plays keep away with the ring, smiling through it all, and Felix tries to put as many words to the feeling as possible but finds he can't remember them the moment after they're in his head. His warm mouth, cocky and arrogant and dangerous and passionate. His tongue slipping around and Felix remembers the boldness in Peter's every move.

But then the ring is back on Felix's left hand. He doesn't bother to look down - he knows what happens to hands in dreams. But he can feel its weight, the adult presence it takes on - and he and Peter stop. Foreheads resting against one another, and Felix opens his eyes. Peter's eyes are still green, and they're sparking and mischievous and looking farther and farther away the longer Felix looks. And then he says, voice low and melodious.

"Have fun growing up," Peter says. He sounds like he's standing outside of the car. The smoke isn't ghosting over Felix's lips anymore, although it still fills the empty spaces between them. He offers Felix a cigarette he hadn't been holding a moment before and smirks. "Don't get boring just 'cause I'm not there."

Felix takes the cigarette and brings it to his lips by route. He goes to suck on it, but finds himself quickly breathing air. A moment more and his eyes spring open.

He's back in bed, on a comfortable mattress, next to John curled up on his side. There's grey light from the window.

The content of the dream is fading fast. Like water through gravel. Peter was there. They kissed and it felt like a goodbye five years too late. There's a part of Felix that desperately wants to fall back asleep, to find him again and relive whatever it was and remember everything this time around.

But that thought disappears almost the moment it materialises. He isn't really sure what's happening when he grabs John's shoulder, jostles him with enough force that he gives a rather  _snively_ gasp and jolts up in bed.

"Wha-? Fee...what-what' happened?"

Felix can't remember, really, but he shrugs and says the first thing that comes to mind. "We should set a date."

John rubs his eyes, hair all over the place and face swollen from sleep. " _Now?"_ He turns over, pyjamas all wrinkled from sleep. Through the darkness, Felix can see the edges of the quote inked into John's arm when he stabilises himself. "Felix, 's five in th' morning."

"Right," Felix says. He isn't sure what possessed him to wake John up. Maybe it's only that he enjoys the dishevelment the slightly grumpy look on his fiance's face. Or perhaps it's only because he's still in that odd place between consciousness and sleep. "We can do that later."

"Ta." John mumbles, reaching over and kissing Felix. He's bleary and misses, getting mostly the side of Felix's mouth, but the correction only takes a moment and then John's collapsing back onto the pillows with a rather comedic flop.

And Felix figures that, despite it being five in the morning, and they have to be at the bank by nine, it's probably late enough to get up. Maybe today's the day he won't burn breakfast.

But the air is chilly and the bed is warm and John's making a little warbly sound at the back of his throat and he thinks he'll be able to make himself wake up in five minutes. And so, pulling the covers over his shoulder, with John's breathing forming a soothing rhythm, he lies back down on the pillows and lets himself drift away.

**Author's Note:**

> And uh, yeah. Thus ends the Blowing Smoke verse. ~~I may or may not still write a few smaller ones from when Peter's still alive.~~
> 
> Also, if anyone was wondering, Morris Hall is based off Maurice Hall from EM Forster’s _Maurice._ and Nick Carrow is based off Nick Carroway from _The Great Gatsby_ because I just can’t help myself from making little easter eggs.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story, and that the tone wasn’t too jarring considering some of the subject matter. Please let me know what you think. This story was a bit of a risk and an experiment in characterization, content, and style and due to the tugboat-ship at the center I’m a little worried I won’t get feedback. So yeah, I’m grovelling.
> 
>  
> 
> **Acknowledgements**  
> 
> 
> Once again to the amazing **z0mbieshake** for help in every phase of this story - from the plotline to editing to reading through the first draft to being my cheerleader and my beta and my critic. Thank you so much!  <3


End file.
